


Adaptation

by YoursHopefully



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 45,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoursHopefully/pseuds/YoursHopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce domesticates Selina. Selina strips Bruce of his masks. John Blake meets Jim Gordon's daughter. Barbara Gordon shows the newly risen hero she's no slouch herself. A crazed Dr. Harleen Quinzel breaks the Clown Prince of Crime out of Arkham. Gotham's final curtain call comes, and all are just part of the plan. Post TDKR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**W** ater was sloshing over the steel-shod heels. It was already nightfall – the city regrouping and evacuating while the Feds brought in their resources to check over Gotham for any residual threat. No threat. She'd put the  _threat_  through a solid concrete wall with the Bat's fancy toy.

And here she was – booking it through the surf to scramble over rocks and debris. A small scale tidal wave had hit the shoreline after the bomb had gone off in the bay. Selina Kyle squashed another rising knot of fear in her throat. There wouldn't be a body left. It would've been incinerated in the blast.

But she'd trusted her gut since she was old enough to even remember. Things worked that way when you were on your own. You relied only on yourself and not the say-so of any other bastard trying to screw you over.

And it paid off after an hour or two of scouring the shoreline on foot. He was washed up, just a dark lump covered in sand and flotsam. Just idling in the tide with the trailing length of his cape surging and receding in the current.

The heels were shitty traction in the sand, so she scrambled as quickly as she could to flip him. No burns or horrible wounds – just passed out from exhaustion from treading water in the heavy suit. Took in water when he exhausted himself. Drowned.

"You lying bastard," she hissed, pumping his chest in rhythmical, jerky jabs with her clenched fists. "Don't die on me, Wayne," she half-shouted, gritting her teeth and forcing his lips open with her mouth to force a wave of air into his lungs. More pumps to his chest – still nothing. The lower half of his face remained wan and slack beneath the cowl.

Selina almost gave up at that point. Everything was impermanent in her world. Even this brief flicker of kinship she felt with the former billionaire who ran around in a cape, defending the weak and downtrodden while giving back to those that had none.

The first that had inspired in her some sense of responsibility. Anchored her to this shithole city and made her care enough to not speed off into the sunset and out of the possible blast radius. Her sense of self-preservation was her religion. Where did this guy get off by making her go back on her most absolute policy then have the stupidity to die on her?

Wetness raced down her cheeks. She refused to call them tears. No need to cry over spilled milk.

Selina still couldn't will herself to stop pumping his chest and forcing air down his lungs. She could try and race back to the cycle to radio in help, but the lack of oxygen she was constantly forcing into him would terminate whatever was left of his brain functions. So she kept on until her arms ached with the effort and her lungs burned, chanting, "Wayne, c'mon.  _Wayne_."

It happened so abruptly. He reeled up, choking and spitting out a stream of seawater before losing whatever he had in his stomach, dry heaving near the end onto the sand before she eased him onto his back.

"No auto-pilot?" she said tersely, yanking back the synthetic material of his cowl to bunch around his neck.

"Had a few bugs in the system – couldn't trust it to get the job done until I was sure it'd go far enough out without manual drive," he wheezed out, his eyes sharpening into focus. And he was looking at her, smiling with that infuriatingly peaceful look he had around him these days. More at peace than the man she'd turned on in the Wayne Manor the first night she'd clapped eyes on him.

Gone was the hounded, haunted look in his eyes. All Selina saw was a calm peace she ached for.

"C'mon. Up, Wayne, we've got to clear out. Conquering hero and all, they'll be wanting you back in Gotham," she muttered, lacing an arm under his body. He stilled her with a hand to her cheek, her mask slipping off to dangle useless in his fingers.

Both of them were unmasked. Exposed in every way. On every level.

Warmth was coming back into his body by the time Bruce Wayne eased his lips over hers, her mind slipping away to just idle in the background while her body surged against his.

All her life she'd been able to put on masks. A weak, screaming woman. The seducer. An efficient conman. Even feeble, meek maids and unflinching, uncaring opportunist who valued their own skins above anything else. But Bruce saw through all of them. Just as she saw through his masks.

"How adaptable are you, Selina?" he asked her after they had broken the kiss, panting for air and looking just as shaken up as she was. Connections were rare for their kind. And theirs came once in a lifetime.

"Very," she breathed, leaning back in to catch the taste of him on her tongue once more.


	2. Constant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**S** he felt warm for the first time in months. The city grid under Bane's little coup was tenuous in terms of power supply. Some nights there wasn't even fuel to spare for the generators she'd nicked from a run-down office building, and she huddled deep into layers of cloth to keep the heat in. Didn't go far from her ratty little walkup in Oldtown. Couldn't get off the island to save her skin. God knows she tried.

The low thrums of smoothly running engines filled her ears, and Selina cracked an eye open to view the dim cabin. It was luxurious, to be sure. But only Bruce was piloting the small Gulfstream. She had a thorough coaching in operating small aircraft earlier helping him copilot out of Gotham's airspace, but luckily they were unrecognized. Air traffic control was too wrapped up in managing the incoming waves of government charters to notice a small jet skidding off a spare runway. The jet belonged to some Wayne Enterprise executive who'd get compensated for the loss, so Selina figured Bruce wasn't violating any ethical code in his mind.

Unwinding herself from the woolly throw she'd found in the rear compartment, she slunk off the couch and rehydrated herself with some bottled water from the small refrigerator.  _The lifestyle of the rich and famous_ , she mused as she took in the leather upholstery and recessed lighting in the luxury cabin.

The lavatory had a small shower to boot, so she squeezed in after fishing her razor and toiletries from the small pile of belongings they'd swiped from her old walkup before leaving Gotham. Her mouth cracked open to get a bit of the water from the showerhead, her toothbrush following as she scrubbed her teeth free of the fuzzy texture and raked the stale taste of sleep from her tongue.

The neoprene of her suit was still rank with seawater and sweat, so she opted for a cream colored blouse and some dark slacks. Nice sunhat set aside for when they landed to hide her face – pumps with a raised heel and pointed tip. Classy and discreet.

"Bruce?" Stepping through the cockpit threshold, she toweled her hair dry and let it hang dripping over her collar. She'd bother with cosmetics later. The lipstick on her mouth from earlier still felt cloying on the skin, but a flush spread up her neck when she saw his lips rosy from the color she'd put there earlier.

"We're just over Gibraltar – landing at MXP in about two hours," he said, his voice a bit hoarse from strain. A smatter of dark stubble was starting up on his jaw. Selina leaned over to cover a spot with her lips, inhaling. "Milan?"

"I've got property in the area. Should be secluded enough to lay low for a while, and it's under an alias on the deed. No connection to me."

Selina nodded, slumping into the copilot seat to stare out at the Mediterranean beyond.

"What are you planning on doing after you get your clean slate?" he said half-jokingly, turning from the controls and shaking his headphones down to his neck. His eyes glinted in the weak light coming through the windows, and for the first time Selina noticed a little nodule of skin on the bridge of his nose – a spot of imperfection on the Prince of Gotham.

"Don't know. Haven't given it much thought since the first 'clean slate' turned out to be a sham," she said in all honesty. What was there for her? Her education had no specialization beyond the credits she'd pushed in her off hours towards graduating from Gotham University. Even that was done on a whim – she'd barely graduated high school in-between prison stints and subsequent escapes. College courses were just a distraction in the daytime in the early half of her twenties.

Her steady jobs were the heists she pulled during the night. The payoffs giving her more than she needed to live comfortably, she subsidized some of the cash into small increments and donated anonymously to various shelters around the city. Battered women, orphans, at risk youth, suicide prevention. Bleeding hearts of the world united under Selina Kyle's cash raked in from the bloated bank accounts and jewel caches of the rich.

To sum it up, her only real skill was burglarizing. Last she checked that wasn't a legitimate trade. And this was her second chance. Blowing it on a little slipup like theft was idiocy – if this program Bruce had handed to her was legitimate, she couldn't keep scrubbing her identity every time she managed to fuck up. How to feed herself if she couldn't rely on her one trade, though?

He broke the silence. "I've got plenty in some off-shore bank accounts to start you off until you get settled."

_Charity._

"Thanks. I should be alright with what I have stashed, though."

Bruce smiled at that, his hands strong and steady on the steering controls. He'd packed up the suit and gadgets in metal casings after she'd stitched him up and gotten a few CCs of fluid into his system before takeoff. That  _girlfriend_  of his knifed him between the ribs, but missed his vitals by a few inches.  _Sloppy_. Painkillers didn't hurt either, but he turned them down and sat patiently silent under the nattering she'd given him afterwards about electing to be pigheaded over practical.

The city was relatively deserted by the time they got the Batpod and her belongings stashed on the jet. No one had caught sight of them heading out of the city, with luck. Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle were just casualties on the growing list of the missing.

"We'll talk about it later. For now, hop on the communication channel and radio us in – just follow the call signs and they won't ask questions."

There was the Bruce she knew. Always in control of the situation. Total control. And here was Selina Kyle, trusting another for the first time with that degree of control she'd always maintained in any situation.

She picked up the headset and booted up the communication system on the jet, her voice as steady and controlled as Bruce's as she rattled off coordinates and clearance codes to a squawking Italian on the other end.

The heat of his hand on her shoulder was warmer and more reassuring than any of the fires that had gotten her through the long nights of the occupation, though. And more constant.

Hope was something she'd long given up on in her life. But for a moment, she tricked herself into letting a little sliver of it squirm and lance into her heart.  _Light up the dark._

And prove that she could never let him down again if she tried.


	3. Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**L** ake Como was situated on the cusp of the Swiss border with Italy. Sprawling over the mountain range, it cut deep into the bedrock of the Alps. Villas of every shape and size marched up and down the shoreline of lush forests and mountainsides flanking the lake.

He'd bought the place on a whim during the uneven stint of time before the Joker had started his crime spree. A small part of him egged him on, the idea that Rachel might've liked the place a key note in the buy. If he could've ever spirited her away from Dent. But Rachel proved to be of a different mindset, as Alfred had hidden from him all these years. Bruce had come to terms with it in the longs months in the pit.

Now it was just an empty villa situated on a jut of land near Varenna. The town barely had a population that breeched one thousand in the tourist season, and even less during the offseason. The spring thaw had barely touched the snowcapped peaks of the surrounding mountains, and the colorful jumble of stucco houses braced on the shore of the town seemed empty as they passed through. Selina Kyle was passed out in his passenger seat, the brim of her hat slung low over her brow as her chest rose with her shallow breathing.

He ducked into a grocer to get just enough for the week, paying with some crisp new euros he'd exchanged what was left of his dollars for in Milan.

"How much further?" Selina asked groggily after they'd wound their way along another mountain pass. The car was just a black four door sedan – nothing flashy or obtrusive. He didn't want to be noticed. Not at this stage in the game.

"And…here," he said with a bit of flourish. They'd pulled up to an iron grille off of a side road. Bruce wasted no time punching in the code, the gates swinging open with an automated click before he guided the sedan onto the crushed shell path leading up to the circle drive.

The grounds were just a little bit overgrown. He must've forgotten to set up the monthly installments for upkeep on the place after Rachel had died. That was fixable. Selina's small inhale of surprise was worth it all.

"No need to impress a girl or anything, Wayne," she said drolly after a moment of self-collection. She stepped out onto the gravel of the drive, her heels crunching as she paced up to the portico of the two storied villa. Terra cotta tiles and warm stucco walls, it was atypical architecture for Lake Como. But the rambling sprawl of its many wings and additions gave it a unique charm that had drawn him in to begin with. Selina was off like a shot, sweeping through the rooms with a curiosity he couldn't match.

Curiosity did kill the cat, though.

"Miss Kyle, watch your step. Place has been unoccupied for a while and I'm not entirely sure the alias hasn't been linked to me."

"I can take care of myself, Bruce," she shot back at him, already engrossed in examining the small morning room facing out onto the lake. Another stone portico that hung out over the water had her full attention, enough to where she was flinging open the banks of doors on the backside of the villa to air the place out. Bruce couldn't argue – the place smelled stale and was thick with dust.

"Gonna dust so we're not wheezing with black lungs by the end of the night. Know where you keep the cleaning supplies?" Selina squinted as a slant of light came through the fractured windows of stained glass.

"Check the trunk. Bought some in town before you woke up."

She disappeared without a word, popping back into the foyer armed with buckets and dusters. A huge bottle of window cleaner and some ammonium solution clattered in one bucket.

"Alright, Wayne, ever cleaned your own home?"

Selina could put him to shame in terms of domestic efficiency. She was on her hands and knees with her hair thrown back in a kerchief, dust and grit staining her pearly blouse brown as she got the accumulated grime out of the delft tiling of the hearth. They'd finished the thorough cleaning procedure in the master bedroom and laid clean bedding on all three of the bedrooms in the house.

Now the question hung in the air of who was sleeping where.

And with whom.

Bruce was undeniably attracted to the leggy thief. Some social hag at the function he'd spotted Selina at all those months ago had scorned the tall woman's overlarge facial features and gawky, narrow build. Bruce saw only a wide, sinuous mouth that was quick to curve into one of those smirks she was prone to show. Even the genuine smiles he coaxed out on rare occasions. It was corny to say her eyes were a draw in for him, but it was truth. Bright and brimming with any emotion she cared to show, bones narrow and defined against the pale skin of her face.

And a body to die for. She'd kicked off her pumps to clean and he realized how much height she had in them. She couldn't be over five foot seven or eight at the most. Could circle her waist with his hands to boot. The cat suit didn't hide anything, and he wasn't exactly a monk. Not quite. Every proportion of her fit the bill for a woman he wanted badly. It'd been a while. Ages since Rachel. Flings here and there, but he'd really been a shut-in these last eight years.

Again, Rachel. Some noble notion that the longer he held on to the memory of her, the more likely it'd be to live easier with her death on his hands. He was wrong.

They finished up with the cleaning and retreated to the low-ceilinged kitchen. It was very modern, but still had the traditional oven-in-the-wall deal he assumed all older Italian homes possessed.

"So, feeling up to cooking?" Selina said, all brisk and business as she packed away the groceries from the brown paper bags into various cabinets and the stainless steel behemoth of a fridge.

"This isn't exactly my area of expertise."

"Alfred did most of your housework, I'm guessing?" she said, keeping the judgment clear out of her tone. Merely curiosity in her high, clear voice.

"You've got it," he said, clearing his throat of the emotion choking him up. He could lose his guarded attitude around this woman pretty easily, he'd discovered. His old guardian was still a sore subject in the shuttered places of his mind.

Their histories weren't all that dissimilar. Only their socio-economic status set them apart. He'd done his homework on Selina Kyle, and the story wasn't such a fairytale. Bruce had a good idea that she already knew of his awareness in that respect.

"Alright, Wayne, you get off easy tonight. Watch and learn."

"You've been taking care of yourself for a while," he said as he watched her move fluidly through the kitchen. Not a question, a statement. Her mouth was done up in a new shade. Instead of the thick, blood-like red she was prone to wearing on heists and in the suit, she was sporting a layer of lipstick in pale rose. It was pretty – heightening the color in her cheeks as she handed off a bottle of Nebbiolo he'd brought up from the cellar.

"I'm no judge of fine wine, Bruce. Start educating me."

"This particular vintage," he started off in his best overblown, asshole socialite voice. That brought a snorting giggle from Selina, and a smile crept across her face as he kept up the barrage of verbose details about the wine.

"A fine rose red from the Piedmont region, with just notes of the tannic tastes of tar and roses in its youth. Aged, you get the full bouquet of – want me to keep going?" he ribbed her, shoving a brimming glass full of the light ruby liquid across the island counter. She turned from the chicken she was prodding around on a skillet, draining the glass in one go without a thought to the taste.

"Another," she said, her voice a bit husky from the wine working its way down her throat. She tapped the glass with a long red nail, the same color smudging the rim from her lips. He was starting to love the damn color.

"Here's to…the savior of Gotham," she said in a toast, raising the freshly poured glass of red to clink with his. Theirs eyes met, one intense lock as they both drank to that. He added, "To the  _saviors_  of Gotham." Selina curved her lips in another small, genuine smile instead of scoffing.

"Sounds prestigious. Do I get a door prize for being a good girl?" she said in a throaty, rolling tongue. She was too good at teasing. Already plucking his strings and straining the grip of his hand on the thin stem of the wine glass as he drained it.

"All depends," he said shortly to her turned back. She'd set some linguine to boil, and from the smell of it he was going to be feasting on one hell of an Italian meal tonight. "Where'd you learn to cook?"

"My mother."

"Warning you not to get into strange cars  _and_ cooking lessons? Mrs. Kyle seems like a 'hands on' mother."

"Seemed, you mean. She seemed like a 'hands on' mother," Selina supplied with just a touch of wistfulness. "Dead since I was young, but some of her important lessons stuck."

Bruce had nothing to say to that. The only tangible, real thing he had of his mother were old photographs, scattered home videos, and the strand of pearls. He could remember a few things. Martha Wayne was warm – her touch, her smile, her smell. Especially around her son. She had a special smile reserved only for him from day one of his memories as far back as he could recall.

Until he had grown too big for her to handle, she'd catch him in her arms and splash dirt down his back when he sprung on her working in the gardens or the hothouse. They'd get messier than if they'd rolled in mud and then come tromping through Alfred's pristine kitchen.

Infamous acts like that instituted Alfred's regime of the "wipe your shoes at the door" policy that had held over since Mrs. Wayne's death.

Selina marshaled two generous portions of breaded chicken and lintels onto two plates before throwing the linguine in a bowl. It got a generous helping of some sort of pesto sauce. He snuck a taste on the tip of his finger while her back was turned – delicious.

He helped them both out of the back doors onto the veranda. She wanted to watch the water at night while they dined, and he was all for it. The mountains were jutting up high against the sky and seemed impossibly close, hanging over the lake and shadowing the dark waters. Stars were everywhere. Lake Como was at least an hour outside of Milan, far enough out of the city lights to give a spectacular view at night.

"Nothing like Gotham. Usually it's either red or some yellow haze hanging over the city at night. Haven't seen stars light these in ages," she said in-between quick bites, her eyes wide as she soaked in the sight. They'd pulled up a few lounge chairs and a small wicker couch near a glass top table. Water lapped at the marble jetty down the steps. More peace than he'd had in months.

"So, what are your plans?" he'd asked after polishing off the last bit of sauce with a hunk of fresh bread. Selina seemed to freeze up in thought, the wineglass balanced in her fluttering hands.

"I'd hate to impose. I can snag a cab to the commuter train and get to Geneva in the morning. You won't hear from me again, that's for sure," she said in her best cocksure manner.

"What could I do to convince you to stay on for a few months here? With me." He fixed her squarely, and for a moment he felt like he was pinning her to the spot with his gaze.

Selina Kyle actually looked nervous at the prospect, but then something else was edging across her features. Wistfulness?

"I've got all the time in the world, Wayne."

"It's Bruce, Ms. Kyle."

"It's  _Selina_ , Bruce," she shot back.

"Fair enough," he said, shoving his plate back and lifting the hem of his shirt over his head. Even that one got the jump on the cat burglar, and she blinked her confusion away with a smirk.

"Jumping the gun here, Wayne. Buy a poor girl a drink or something before we get to that." Her nails clinked on her wineglass, her third if he recalled right. A flush was creeping up her cheeks and she'd managed to lose the rigid posture in her body.

"I haven't had a swim in a long while. And since we're both free of obligations for the time being, it's time to live a little."

"It's  _winter_ ," she said with a grin. But her fingers were inching up the hem of her dirty blouse, loosening her hair from its sloppy bun and stepping out of her pressed trousers as she made her way down the terrace steps towards the jetty.

Bruce was hypnotized. Every inch of her pale skin was hit with the starlight. The slim lines of her waist meeting the bloom of her hips, tapering down into the longest set of shapely legs he'd seen on a woman. Every inch lean and hard with muscle laced with scar tissue.

"Cat got your tongue, Bruce?" she said in a low voice. He jerked his eyes off of one rounded, silvered bullet wound below the narrow bones of her collar. Plain black silk covering her modestly, but her breasts were…

He moreover flew off his end of the jetty into the icy water for his own sanity after shedding his trousers, pumping the freezing waves beneath his arms to cut cleanly through the calm lake. She was more sedate, knifing the surface in a neat dive and slicking back the dark length of wet hair from her face.

They idled in the water for a bit, their breath coiling in the air. The heat of the small earthen brazier they'd lit near their dining spot was long forgotten, and they huddled in the water near the stone of the jetty.

"Anymore," she chattered, her teeth white and gleaming as her breath coiled inches from him, "and we'll both be…fucking popsicles." Selina let out the first genuine, real laugh he'd heard from the sardonic, closed woman. It lit up her eyes and made her lips stretch wide. Spellbinding.

For the first time, it was him who leaned in first to catch the plump curve of her lips. Sweeter than wine, her tongue arched against his flesh and he lost himself in the savage tangle as she shoved him back on the current into the stone.

He could get used to another retirement with Selina's company.


	4. Sincerity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**T** he doctor had given him a moderately less grim prognosis for the lack of cartilage in any joint. Some new experimental drugs, which he assured the skeptical Italian physician he could afford, were available on this side of the world. Strict FDA regulations were banning its use until further medical trials in the states, but in Europe it was free game. He'd started injections that day and already felt a bit more spring and give in his aching knees.

He'd gunned the sedan along the road from Milan, lowering his shades to hide the glare of the afternoon sun. Selina was sound asleep in her bed by the time he'd gotten out of the villa at five. Now it was almost a decent hour for a late breakfast.

Bruce stepped into the villa foyer and dropped his coat on the rack, taking care not to set her overcoats and scarves off kilter. He could hear bacon crisping in the skillet, and he practically  _smelt_ it wafting through the house.

"Morning," she mumbled from behind the daily  _Tempi_ they'd subscribed to. It covered the regional and Milanese news on top of the international press releases. They'd kept the televisions and laptops off for the last month, preferring to spend the time catching up.

"Think that patch with the GCN is coming in to day," he said after dropping a kiss on her upturned mouth. She smirked, retreating behind her paper and taking another ponderous sip of her cappuccino. Grown to like the taste, she said. Much stronger than the American style of coffee. He had his own cup of the thick, hardy liquid steaming beside her on the island counter.

"You heard me pull up?"

"I can hear you miles off, Bruce," she teased with a jaw-cracking yawn. Selina reached for a remote perched near her on the counter, flicking a button to bring the small plasma screen mounted in the wall above the breakfast nook to life.

Sure enough, there were the old news anchors from Gotham's leading news network.

"We'll have to tune in at two in the afternoon to catch the eight o'clock morning news," she said after doing the math in her head. The little minx had stolen his worn out Princeton shirt from his undergrad years, wearing that and some clingy gym shorts in lieu of proper clothes. Her hair was caught up on the back of her head, and he caught sight of a water bottle. Selina was a maniac about getting her morning cardio in before mealtime.

"Who said you could go raiding my dresser?" he said with a touch of incredulity, but his mouth was cracking in a grin. She was good at slipping in and leaving not a scrap of evidence behind.

"We've been practically dry fucking on the couch for two whole months, Wayne. On top of the 'long walks on the beach' deal every night. I think we're dating. Dating rights extend to raiding your significant other's wardrobe. You can borrow some heels, if you like. Got the legs for them," she said after a mouthful of cappuccino. Well, she got right to the heart of the issue. With a little bit of Selina sass added in for variety.

Her eyes darkened, and she caught the length of his tie in her grip before winding it around her slim wrist. Reeling him in. Nails were redone in a light blush of clear pink, and her daily war paint of cosmetics had yet to go on. He had a special love for her natural look.

"We've got a date tonight, Ms. Kyle," he enunciated carefully, taking her by the wrist to detangle his tie from her sharp grip. He had her by the waist before she could blink, spinning her off her tall chair and into a dip.

"W-fff, fuck, Bruce!" she shrieked, swatting at his shoulder and laughing hard enough to turn red in the face as he mouthed a spot on her neck especially ticklish. Fisting the lapels of his double-breasted jacket, she managed to get the leverage on him to spin herself back up and pin him with a hard shove to his shoulders.

They went sprawling onto the tile, her warm weight settling on his back as her lips latched onto a spot behind his ear. Their routine for the last eight weeks of cold winter had been varied, but had a certain rhythm to it.

Breakfast, cleaning, exercise, lunch, reading, individual time doing whatever one did without the other, old films on the big screen in the living room, dinner, more exercise, more movies. All inter-sped with his valiant attempts to keep a gentlemanly distance from Selina Kyle and a dialogue going. Which was harder than it sounded.

She had an affinity for getting what she wanted. Safes and codes were mere obstacles in her path when she was clawing for a shiny gem or piece of data to steal. Only this situation it was something tangible with a free will, and the sense to know that he didn't want to rush whatever was blooming between the two of them despite her impulsiveness. So he made her wait. Bruce Wayne certainly had a will of iron and an endless well of patience, but his rope was pulling up short these days.

Selina had this habit of coiling herself up close to him like a housecat onto the couch during their wind down time in the evenings. She'd beaten him at chess for the first time, and the victory was celebrated with some loud trash talking that he'd happily bantered with during dinner. Afterwards he'd fished an old war film out of their growing stack of movies.

He wasn't sure who'd started it, but soon he had her flat on the Moroccan leather of the couch with his hands bunching up her skirt and the film's dialogue turning into a low hum of noise in his ears. She tasted like silk and sharp, crisp lime in the mouth when he'd locked her lips in a hard kiss. Tastes varied as he slipped down the tight arc of her body – a bit of dusky perfume dabbed in the cleft of her breasts, clean powder near her navel with a hint of lemon verbena oil at the crease of her groin and thigh. It was a feast for the senses. Especially when he laid his tongue flat over the silky triangle between her straining legs and hooked the fabric away, delving in.

Now  _that_ was sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted. Her own light, heady musk filling his nose as the power of bringing such a gorgeous, wild creature to submit the control to him settled in his bones.

The noises she'd made were what egged him on. Selina was a woman who was  _very_  efficient at faking emotion and giving people what they wanted to hear or see. But these sounds…were very, very sincere. Every hitch in her breathing, every mewl and throaty shout – he took those to heart, working his mouth to catch the slick nub of flesh between his lips to strum with his tongue.

Nothing beat the feel of Selina Kyle unraveling under his mouth, her ankles locked hard around his neck as she thrashed and bucked beneath.

Her mouth had been swollen and full by the time she'd come back down from whatever high she was riding. Bruce dropped a chaste kiss on her cheek before she latched her nails into his shoulders and dragged him in, her tongue thrusting in to coil and steal the taste of her from his lips. He didn't have many highlights in his life, but that afternoon on the couch was high on the list to date.

"Someone's off in their own world," Selina murmured, dragging the length of her tongue up the side of his neck 'til she had the lobe of his ear between neat, sharp teeth. She was very distracting, his thief.

"Just thinking my way out of this one."

"Even the Batman can't break out of my hold? Poor, poor Batman," she practically purred, catching his chin between her nails to twist his neck around and lay her lips over his. But her hold slackened as soon as he pressed into the kiss, and he had her flipped and pinned on the tile in half a heartbeat.

"Bruce. Bacon is burning," she wheezed out. She had a point. He twisted around and used his long reach to turn the oven off, the burnt smell fogging up the kitchen. But he wasn't paying any attention to  _that_.

"Oops," she said half-heartedly, her mouth furling into a full-blown grin. He mirrored it.

"Let's make a deal," he said with his brightest voice. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she snorted.

"And now the hero slinks low to bargain with the crook. Dirty tactic, Bruce." Her nails were ghosting over the tops of his hands and he locked her wrists tighter over her head in a controlling grip.

"I'll make an exception. Behave today. I've got something in store for you after our little outing," he said in his best cajoling tone. She was hard to coax, and even harder to convince on some points. Constantly on edge, but she was slackening the remote, hard attitude around him these last few weeks. Significantly. Getting as comfortable as he was around her to start with.

"You know how I hate it when you dangle these things right in front of me, then put these little  _conditions_ on the agreement," she groaned, her body flexing in a tight arc beneath him. Her legs managed to work out from between the tight grip he made with his knees, latching onto his hips to yank and send him sprawling across her.

"Now, tell me. What's the surprise? Going to slap me in cuffs and send me back to Blackgate? I'd much prefer you practically dry  _fucking_  me on the couch for the next few months than huddling on some measly prison cot," her words were strung out in a high, breathy voice, hips rolling to press the hot crux of her sex to the front of his pants as  _fucking_  slipped out of her perfect mouth.

She could turn on a dime like that. One moment the carefree woman, but soon she morphed into the smoldering seducer out for your blood.

As he said, he had his limits in terms of patience. He pried himself off of Selina before he did something stupid, easing her up and tossing her across his arms with a loud shout of protest from the cat burglar.

"Damnit, Bruce! I'm not sixteen – we're consenting goddamn adults and  _fucking Christ_ I want you to-" her stream of small-scale profanity was cut off, the door gently snapping shut on her face as he boxed her into her room. He didn't lock the door. Simply beat a trail to his room to lock  _his_  door.

_Like a locked door can stop her._

Bruce leaned his head on the smooth wood of the door, praying for patience. Praying for absolution in the form of a complacent, patient Selina. But he wouldn't have her any other way. He was the even-minded of the two in comparison. She was the fire that never quelled.

His closet was filled with the new wardrobe he'd accumulated over the last month with Selina's help. He had only two suits he used on rare occasions. Such as his doctor's appointment this morning. But the one tux he had to his name was still freshly dry-cleaned and brand new, just hanging there on the rail in the garment bag. His father's cufflinks were somewhere in the bathroom drawers. Or did Selina decide to keep them with the rest of their valuables in the safe she'd proofed?

He'd put the finishing touches on later. For now, they needed to leave the villa by four to be in Milan for the evening he had in mind. The analog clock read half-past eleven.

Bruce yelled the timetable out the door towards her room, and he heard her grumbling assent.

If this was what a 'normal' life constituted, he wasn't complaining. He wasn't a man quick to jump the gun and build on a foundation of sand, but Selina was someone he wanted in his life.

Permanently.


	5. Mastery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**B** ath salts, she had come to discover, were her one vice. Maybe not her  _one_. Her tenth vice in this newfound life. Proceeded by warm biscotti, a hot fire, Bruce's voice tickling her ear. The little things in life. A girl had to stop and smell the roses at some point, didn't she? Her few brushes with death in her short life had taught her that much.

The salts were swirling in the jets by the time she eased her body into the tub. It was a freestanding affair and very European, outfitted with all the bells and whistles of cutting edge plumbing. A brace of jets hit her neck as soon as she submerged, the kinks working themselves out as she groaned. Lavender was saturating the airy bubbles foaming up from the murky, mineral filled water. Selina figured this was as close to heaven she could get.

But then there were the exceptions. Like when Bruce got around her and set her nerves on fire.

They'd gone through the last two months experiencing everything that'd been shortchanged to them in their lives. One night they stayed up until five just to figure out how they liked their eggs cooked. Bruce liked them poached, Selina preferred over-easy. The kitchen had been a wreck afterwards, but they had crowded up onto the countertop from the yolk-smeared floor and feasted on a good pound of eggs between the both of them.

One weekend they'd driven over the border to Switzerland and spent hours plowing the slopes. He was pretty hot with the skis after years of familiarity with the pastime, but Selina showed up the rich boy a couple of times with her flashy moves. It wasn't all that dissimilar from skating, and she got the hang of it with minimal coaching from Bruce. Though she could tell he enjoyed the moments where the ever-present and effervescent Selina Kyle was ass-down in the snow from losing her balance on the damn skis. She'd let him laugh at her expense.

It was all the more funnier when she'd caught on quick and drenched him in a spray of wet slush after cutting a hard stop near the lodge at the end of a run. But she was poling off before he could catch her, and she'd goaded him on about being too rickety and aged for this sport.

Bruce Wayne shoved a practical shovelful of snow down the front of her thermal wear for that in the chalet when they'd turned in for the night. She'd been lounging in front of the fire with a good read –  _Tale of Two Cities_. Something he'd recommended.

Then a wet, slushy handful of snow was dumped unceremoniously into her shirt. Bruce said she'd frozen and practically latched onto the ceiling after the incident, but she did recall tackling him off the porch in the subsequent chase she'd given the laughing man.

He was really living; she realized this fact after he'd mopped her up and mollified her with some teasing apologies. Neither of them really had a childhood to speak of.

But ghosts of the past still hung around him as much as they did her.

Selina willed herself out of the contemplative trail of thought, actually starting the process of bathing over staring listlessly at the marbled walls. She finished up and emerged pink and fresh, draining the water and sitting at the small vanity in the dimly lit bathroom. Her face was still as narrow and hard as ever, but she saw bits softening up around her eyes and mouth. Smile lines. There was a new one.

Her head hit the granite of the countertop gently, and she shut her eyes. To say the process of being around Bruce was draining would be an understatement.

Things she cared for were taken away by coincidence, incidents, or natural causes. This was no different. Eventually he would slip away from her, and her heart would build back up that prickly barrier he'd been stripping down.

"Quarter to three, Selina!" his voice echoed through her bedroom from the hall.

"Got it!" she shouted back, blinking back tears and controlling the tremor in her voice.

For now, she could tuck away messy feelings in an orderly mental box like she always had been capable of doing since childhood. Her eyes landed on the dress she'd lain out, and the elegant satin heels waiting below them.

For jewels, she chose her old set of pearl eardrops from Miranda Tate's gala.

Her mother had taught her that a woman's lipstick spoke volumes about her nature. Before the depression had sucked her into the listless husk she'd become, she'd sit Selina on her vanity and slather on all sorts of lipstick onto the child's mouth.  _This is your armor_ , she had said to her oldest daughter.

Selina plucked up the rarely used tube of scarlet red from the rack, gently etching her lips with the liner then smoothing the deep color over the flesh. Her eyes seemed huge in her face, rimmed with kohl and brimming with solemnness. She pasted a smile onto her mouth and cinched her waist into a garter belt, shimmying up her nylons and clipping them in place.

The bustier went on next, then the dark, slinky dress with the plunging neckline and halter top. Slits ran up to her knee, the skirt trailing just slightly. Bruce said it would be black tie, whatever they were going to. As the cat burglar stepped into her heels and got a look at the tall, slim woman staring back at her in the mirror, she realized how far she'd come from the slums of Gotham.

Her hair was dry by now, and she unpinned the tightly coiled rolls to shake it into a soft wave. She'd need a trim soon – the ends tickled the middle of her spine when she moved.

A simple silk clutch came out of her closet, and she plucked the tube of lipstick from her vanity and flared out her eyelashes with thick mascara. She looked done, so she whirled out of her room and down the steps towards the kitchen as she tugged on some satiny gloves to ward off the chill outside. She could hear Bruce rummaging around the office on the front end of the villa, and she knocked discreetly on the cracked door before stepping through.

"Hey, could you…" he trailed off after turning his head to look at her. His eyes fixed onto her, and a slow smile broke over his handsome face. Selina's heart did that odd little trip at the sight.

"Can't crack the safe?" she teased, stooping over by him to flick the codes and magnetic locks with her gloved fingertips. It opened with a complacent beep, and Bruce shook his head before affixing the rounded pins of his cufflinks to his tux.

"Turn," he said to her, and she complied. The cool, heavy weight of the pearls settled on her neck. His lips pressed into the nape before he dropped the loose mass of hair over her bare back, and Selina leaned back into his body. They rocked there for a second, her hands covering his as they twined over her stomach, and for a moment she felt more at home than ever.

"Four on the dot," she said after a look at the carriage clock on his desk. He groaned, his face buried into her neck.

"I'll get your coat," he muttered, breaking away from her and straightening the crisp collar. His tie had yet to be done, so she followed and neatly finished it off while he shrugged into his greatcoat and scarf.

"So, what's the surprise?" They were snug in the spacious sedan. A Mercedes that she was growing to love, despite its ostentatiousness.

"Wouldn't be a surprise if I spoiled it now," he chuckled, the black leather of his gloves flexing on the wheel as he glided around a curve. Their fingers met between them, and Selina let herself tuck her smaller hand in the warm, large grip.

"It's…in Milan," she reasoned out after they crossed the lake on SS36. Bruce just smiled and said nothing while she clipped through deductive reasoning for the better part of the drive. Soon Milan was on the horizon, the city small in comparison to Gotham.

They sped through the narrow streets towards the city center, and Selina finally realized what exactly Bruce had in store for her when they pulled up to a valet stand in front of a massive, neo-classical building with a throng of impeccably dressed people milling in the portico.

"La Scala?" she said, shell-shocked and dazed as Bruce offered her a hand out of the car and handed off the keys to the valet.

"Season is almost done, so I figured we'd catch the closing night."

He must've heard her playing the records.

Her mother had a small collection of opera albums that Selina had inherited after the meager estate was divided up. Maria Kyle herself was third generation Italian, and her husband was from Irish stock. But Selina had grown up in a house filled with the throaty strains of Giovanni Martinelli and Beniamino Gigli floating from the kitchen.

She'd found a small record player in the villa attic about a month into their seclusion. It was rusted, but a bit of cleaning and the familiar strains of  _La Gioconda_ filled the room up to the rafters. She'd spent all of the afternoon up there, an echo of her mother in the familiar strains of the worn out records.

They made their way through the grand hall and a theater attendant took her coat and scarf after Bruce helped her out of it. The weight of his mother's pearls were reassuring as another attendant led them up the winding stairs towards a side gallery, then finally through a small door.

_Of course. Bruce would be the guy to get them box seats._

Selina quelled the rising excitement and emotion, schooling her face into a polite mask of interest as she gazed over the balustrade at the full house. But she folded her gloved hand over Bruce's, giving it a hard squeeze and a secret smile.

"Thank you," she mouthed as the curtain rose and the overture blasted from the orchestral pit.

The opera tonight was Boito's  _Mefistofele_. One of her mother's favorites since Gigli sung these roles exclusively throughout his career. The famous Italian tenor preformed in this very opera house a hundred years or so ago, in the very opera she was watching.

She'd give anything to have Maria Kyle with her tonight.

_See, mom? Listen – how beautiful. How perfect everything is. How perfect he is._

Bruce gave her the seat closest to the stage, and they were a floor up from the main floor to give them a good vantage. The performers leaped and twirled and belted out lyrical notes, blasting her back with the chaos of sound and motion. One scene had acrobats spinning on ropes they'd dropped from the flies, hunched and dark in the shape of hellish bats.

Selina watched Faust morph from a stooped old man into a youth, romancing Margherita and skirting the deal he made with the devilish Mefistofele. Time flitted by, and soon the second act was at an end. The curtain fell on the poised cast, and thunderous applause rolled like thunder through La Scala.

Selina bolted out of her seat, her clapping muffled by the gloves as she beat her hands together with the rest of the theater.

"Bruce, that was-" she stopped, turning to face him. He was still seated, and the look on his face made her heart fall.

"This played the night Chill gunned down my parents," he supplied after a tense minute of silence, his face blank and solemn all at once. Her heart gave another odd little trip. She didn't deal well with dolling out sympathy, but it was easier with Bruce. He  _understood_  that deep, hollow ache you could never fill. The anger. It resonated in both of them.

"I got so spooked by the performance that I asked if we could leave early. My parents knew I was still a bit traumatized from the time I spent down the well with the bats, so we shuffled out of our row and headed out the stage exit. Chill was just jittery and too quick on the trigger. My father handed over the wallet. Chill dropped it, so dad just tried to keep the situation as calm as possible by picking it up and handing it over. 'Take it easy,' he kept on saying, but then Chill saw those pearls around my mother's throat." Selina stayed quiet, carefully watching as his face crumbled and the mask slipped.

"The revolver got pointed at her, so my father reacted. Knee jerk reaction to get in front of her, really. He loved her, so he took the bullet when Chill squeezed the trigger. But mom was  _screaming_  and Chill was too jumped up to not squeeze off another round into her chest. He broke the strand trying to get it off her neck and ran off with what he had, so it took years to get every single pearl back. But I did, and it didn't see daylight until you cracked the safe."

"You want to leave early?" she asked quietly, and he shook his head furiously. He bunched her hands together and kissed the satin laying over the skin. Selina shuddered at the heat of his mouth leaking through the fabric.

"You make it easier. I don't know what to watch – the show or your face," he teased, thumbing her chin in a familiar gesture. Affection surged, and she leaned in to cover his mouth in a gentle kiss. The gentlest she ever could manage, until the red rubbed off onto his lips and she gently swiped it off with a thumb. His glazed look said it all, and they tugged their chairs close to wrap themselves in each other and watch the rest of the ordeal.

It wasn't until after he'd taken her out to a posh restaurant on the Corso Sempione after the opera that she managed to master herself and started talking. To admit things she'd never even admitted to herself.

"I was about six when he started beating her," she started. They were strolling down the path in the snow, the Parco Sempione quiet and lit only with a few street lamps. It had to be past midnight, but she didn't have any fear of muggers. It was the memories he brought back that scared her more.

"My father was a drunk, and he started hitting the bottle hard when the crime wave jumped up and he got laid off. Started gambling, got in deep with the loan sharks until we had trouble putting food on the table with mom's wages."

"Mom just got tired of the beatings. I was only nine when I was begging her to take me and Maggie away, go find a shelter somewhere. Get some help and an attorney for a divorce. But he  _broke_  something in her. I found her hanging from the shower curtain rod after school one day in February, and my father drank himself to death a year after the funeral. Both of them were old-school Catholic, so he'd smack me around and tell me how my mother was burning in hell for her sins. It was tough."

"By the time social services came to collect us and the loan sharks sucked up the life insurance payouts, I knew I wouldn't make it in a foster home. I was too angry, full of it. I couldn't move past what he did to her, couldn't cope. I'd get thrown in a center or a home. So I got out on the street and left Maggie by herself. She did okay. She was too young to understand."

"I was in and out of juvenile halls for most of my life. Then I got smart and figured out how to really play the game. I broke out of Gotham Women's Corrections when I was sixteen and managed to keep my head down. I learned from a few good people how to steal to survive, and then one really talented thief taught me to pull off the bigger heists. But I was on my own the entire time, and I was too dead on the inside to trust anyone but myself," she gasped near the end, hunched over a muddy snowdrift melting in the warmer spring air. Bruce was gripping her around the waist, his face buried in the neck of her jacket.

She didn't know how long she sobbed. It could've been years of those wracking spasms. But Bruce picked her up and brushed the tears off her ruddy cheeks, covering her mouth and swallowing the sounds until she was just hiccupping with the tears.

Selina had lost her edge. She'd thawed out. This man had thawed her out, and now the spring was here. Within her.

"If you hadn't come into my life, Selina, I would've disabled the autopilot and flew the bomb out until the detonation took me with it. You showed me there was  _life_  beyond all the shit we put ourselves through in our roles, the cards that the world deals us, and that if I buried the Batman I had a shot at normalcy. That the idea would endure and I could pass it on and live. With you," he said, gripping her face in-between his hands.

Tears, real tears, spilled over her cheeks into the cold air.

"Let's go home," she said quietly, the word resonating like a prayer between them. Bruce wrapped a strong, broad arm around her and tugged her close. She leaned into the embrace, their pace slow and leisurely as the melting flakes of snow caught in their hair.

They were mastering their fears. Their anxieties. Their pasts. Their identities.

She wasn't alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Mefistofele is an Italian opera in four acts written by the composer Arrigo Boito. It is indeed the opera used in Nolan's first film of the Batman trilogy where a young Bruce Wayne views it with his parents before they are gunned down by Joe Chill. The opera itself made its premiere at La Scala in Milan, the year 1868.
> 
> -An additional note. The back-story of Selina Kyle is not of my own creation. I am following canon sources established in the DC Comic universe, which the Nolan films are heavily influenced by. Maria Kyle, Brian Kyle, and Magdalene Kyle are all canon characters from the DC Universe and I do claim creative rights to those characters.


	6. Urgency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**"** Hope that wasn't an antique," she muttered against Bruce's mouth. The Mercedes was haphazardly parked in the circle drive, the headlights still burning as the keys had been left in the ignition in their hurry to get out of the car.

He'd fumbled with the door while halfway carrying her over the threshold, fighting for a breath of air as she pulled her mouth away. About midway from Milan was when the sordid emotions of grief and loss had cleared up, leaving only hunger. They had hunger to spare.

They'd been too wrapped up in tearing through the other's layers to care about directions, and a hasty lift of her body to side table in the foyer sent a vase off balance, the delicate spun glass splintering into a glorious plethora of sharp colors on the floor.

How could one man be so  _perfect_ , though?

Selina scraped over the broad span of his shoulders, biting the tip of his glove to tug it off before its mate followed. His hands easily oversized hers, and she spent some time admiring the network of silvered scars traced over the rough skin. Then they clamped over her thighs, the skirt of her dress riding up to bare the tops of her stockings.

"Wasn't antique," he rasped out. Little touches of what she deemed his 'Bat' voice were bleeding out into his tone, flaring up the heat in her cheeks. Only Bruce made her blush. Only Bruce made her pulse jump in her throat.

"Don't want to rush anything," he groaned against her mouth before she bit down, blood welling on his split lip.

"Bruce. Stop being practical." Her voice had lost all of its teasing, sly quality. She sounded like herself, but the raw honesty in it took her aback.

He didn't hold back anything. Selina didn't imagine he ever got this rough with the socialites and random women that frequented his life. Passion didn't even describe it. Raw, visceral  _need_ for her permeated his touch before he fumbled with the catch in his trousers. Her long fingers reached between them to pluck and pull. For all the nervousness she was pinning back, they were steady.

She was working a stocking-covered leg out of her bunched panties before she heard him mutter a curse, drawing her mouth to his in a hungry lock. His tongue thrust between her lips, and she felt the elastic snap after he got a grip on the piece of clothing dangling on her leg.

_Oh_ , said a distant part of her mind when Bruce bottomed out in one long, jarring thrust. Her head banged back against the wall and raised a dent in the plaster, toes curling in her heels and a ragged moan yanking itself out of her body. This wasn't him holding back. All of him was there – the pain, the ecstasy, the want, the hunger. So much so that it hurt to look and it hurt to  _feel_ , and she clenched her eyes shut against the burning heat in his.

"Selina," he rasped, willing her eyes open. In sexual situations, she was the one taking the lead. Not here. Bruce owned her because she owned him, inside and out. No secrets between the two of them. No masks. Just bare, raw emotion and the roll of his hips as he thrusted. And she loved it.

To say he set a pace was an understatement. It was all she could do to hook a lean leg around his waist and clutch, her body jerking in spasms as he fucked her through one climax to the next. How could it be this easy? How could it be this  _good_?

One of her shoes dropped to mingle with the shattered glass on the floor, his heels crunching in to grind it all into a fine powder as he brought her up against him. The catch on her bustier fell apart under his hands as well as a rending tear that split her dress down the center, the buttons of his crisp shirt pinging off a wall after Selina worked her hands into the seam and yanked. Skin on skin, her breasts shoved up high and round against him as he brought her off again in a shuddering, breathy crescendo. She threaded her fingers through his hair, clutching until she fancied she'd tear it out by the roots.

Hands spanned over the rounded turn of her bottom for a purchase, clutching hard enough to bruise. Teeth gleamed as he gritted them, and a fringe of hair fell over his eyes. He'd slicked it back for the night, but both were looking worse for wear as she caught sight of their bodies entwined in the mirror on the opposite wall. She had to look away, the intensity of the act drawing her body tight in an arc as he came undone.

His brow was wet with sweat and pressed to her throat by the time he reached that shaking state of completion, the muscles of her body snug around him and drawing out every drop until fluids slicked the soft flesh on the insides of her thighs.

"Fuck," he muttered into the dark silence of the foyer. She couldn't find the will to string words together, much less reply. She fell back onto side table and tried to catch her breath, sweat beading over every inch of her skin.

"That's what just happened," Selina said stupidly, her eyes shut tight. She didn't have the brainpower for witty comebacks at the moment. Bruce grazed his teeth over her neck, sucking a mark on the tender flesh livid and purple before drawing away and lifting her. She slumped and propped her chin on his shoulder, locking her ankles in the now familiar spot in the hollow of his back. He closed the door with his foot and Selina idly hoped the Mercedes would turn itself off – elsewise the poor car would need a new battery by morning.

She didn't think they'd be getting the chance to kill the engine anytime soon.

"Think you can manage carrying me up like this, old timer?" she mumbled. They were still joined, and he was still  _throbbing_  deep, splitting her flesh and rubbing every inch of her deliciously raw. The thought made her wet.

"Old girl hasn't gone to fat yet – keep it up, Kyle, elsewise I won't be able to tote you around like this," he teased. She smacked him on the ass and shot a filthy word at him. Bruce just laughed and eased her back onto the downy feather tick in his bedroom after hauling them both up the steps, and she joined him until the laugh choked in her throat when he impaled her again. The sensation of fullness was back, and his eyes darkened at the sight of her lips working soundlessly.

Communication broke down after that.

She'd gotten on the pill months ago. Not like she needed to scramble to town in the morning to a pharmacy for emergency contraception. They didn't need that issue. Not now.

Their bodies were in a sweaty tangle of sheets and the random articles of clothing that hadn't managed to get ripped off in the process after that round. She was shaking like a leaf from the raw emotion, and Bruce tugged her back against the breadth of his bare chest to share the heat.

"Usually it's a race to see who gets out the door first and makes promises about calling later," she said idly after the heat had quelled, leaving only a slow burn in her body. His scent was everywhere – rich, earthy patchouli he was partial to wearing. Selina inhaled and felt nothing but a wonderful ache in her thighs and sex.

"Can't sneak out if I keep you up past daybreak," he said in that sure tone of reasoning, flipping her back and bunching her legs up before mounting her in one smooth, even thrust.

Selina forgot the world. Her world narrowed into the movement of his body, the flex of his taut stomach, and the burning heat of him penetrating deep. A tear leaked out to soak into the coverlet, the moonlight glinting through the windows to lay a narrow slat of light over his face.

Selina was a sucker for happy endings in fairytales.

She never imagined she'd ever get hers, though. But here it was.


	7. Thaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**L** ight leaked through the heavy drapes. Meager, but still enough to set off his biological clock and tug him into wakefulness.

Selina was sprawled out over his chest, the dark mop of her wild hair tickling his skin as she slept hard. She didn't move an inch when she slept, similar to him. Her body picked a spot and stayed there. Bruce willed the stiffness out of his back and enjoyed the heat of her naked form snug against him, but the morning workload had to be dealt with.

It was weeks after their first real night together. Her belongings had migrated into the master bedroom and bath they now shared, and the room she previously occupied remained empty.

"Selina," he grumbled into her hair. She moaned, rolling off of him and tugging the pillow over her serious case of bedhead after rolling her spine, the vertebra cracking.

"Time is it?" Her voice came out muffled – thick with sleep, and he squinted at the clock.

"Quarter to six."

"Bruce, sleep. You're retired. Act like it," she groused. He leaned over to give her a good pinch on the rear, rousing her enough to earn a gentle knock to his jaw before she hunched up on her side against him and resumed drowsing.

Selina wasn't exactly a morning person. In her thieving, social grifting days she'd stay out at all hours of the night and come home to her various walkup and rentals to sleep past noon. Old habits die hard, and in her defense he  _did_ keep her up past five again. He left the thief to her beauty sleep, tugging on a pair of sweats as he whistled his way down the steps. It was a good life. Now the question remained – how to proceed?

Get a ring on her finger, obviously. Step one.

He knew about the birth control. It was rare that he didn't know every detail about certain types that caught his interest. But even the Batman didn't have the foresight or perception to guess that a former crook that'd robbed him would become his live-in girlfriend.

Step two would need some planning. He still had no notion of what to do in terms of careers. Their mutual accounts had a surplus of nearly four hundred million combined. Selina  _had_ been saving up in the form of a private account in Geneva since her early twenties, and it was now sporting a healthy eight figure sum plus an insanely high interest rate.

But the life of stagnant, flamboyant living wasn't for either of them. She'd said as much.

"We need to actually be  _doing_  something, Bruce. Not joining the yacht club," she'd said.

He could sympathize. Work would be easy to find for her. Both of their identities had been scrubbed from every database known to the world, and only actual periodicals containing their names were valid. But everything in this day and age was stored electronically. Maybe a newspaper or periodical contained her name in connection with an arrest or a heist, but his name was harder to conceal. Bruce Wayne was not a common name you could make everyone forget. The world knew him by it as well as his face.

Bruce eased back into the office chair, booting up his system and flicking through the email account on the Wayne Enterprises network that had yet to be discovered and decommissioned. His access was completely hidden and confidential – even Lucius would have to pry around in the mainframe for a bit to discover him.

 _Can't stay dead forever with a name like Wayne_ , he realized. He could just as easily take an alias, but the idea of living yet another lie didn't sit well with him. Frustration welled up, and he swiveled in the chair to grab the remote off the desk and turn on the wall mounted screen for background noise. GCN was doing their nightly beat on the east coast of the states, and Bruce realized it must only have been midnight over there. The eleven o'clock nightly reports were still rolling.

He sat back, turning his chair to get a look out the window at the snow thawing off the mountain peaks further north of the lake.

" _And in related news, the renovations and repairs to the stadium are fully underway and should be completed in time for next season, the Gotham Rogues drafting from reserves and neighboring national teams to fill the vacancies of the deceased players killed in the occupation bombings. The city's massive reconstruction process is winding down with the summer season only a few weeks away, and all eyes are on Wayne Enterprises as they launch the new clean energy project to replace the city's damaged older power grid with a more sustainable, cheap source of energy."_

Now  _those_ words made him look up from the computer screen. Lucius Fox himself was standing there on the steps of the Wayne Enterprises building, chatting amiably with reporters with the weak light of the sun suggesting the interview had taken place only hours before the eleven o'clock reports.

" _The board is very pleased to announce the successful completion of Dr. Leonid Pavel's fusion reactor prototype, and testing will take place over the next month in an undisclosed location. The people of Gotham should be seeing results on their power bills – clean energy, and cheaper to boot,"_ Lucius chuckled warmly, and the rest of the reporters tittered and chuckled with him until one dissenting voice blared through the sound system.

" _Sir! Can you comment on the originations of the first nuclear core used to hold the city hostage? Will this same reactor be capable of the same, and does your company have fail safes in place to prevent such an event? All of the paper trails lead to this company in terms of ownership of the last reactor, and no formal responsibility was claimed for the bomb after its detonation. Does your company accept responsibility for the nuclear core and the damage it caused to local marine life and the collaborative damages done to the city? Is Wayne Enterprises responsible for the death of the Batman?"_

" _That I cannot comment on – thank you all for your time,"_  Lucius said sternly, turning towards his waiting vehicle as the swarm of reporters followed.

"I heard it on the screen in the kitchen," Selina said from the hall, trailing in with a bowl of cold cereal and coffee. She set those down on the only bare spot she could find on the desk, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Hair was tamed and falling straight to her back, but she'd forgone getting dressed just yet and shrugged on his Princeton shirt – it practically hung over her thighs and sat a size too large on her thin shoulders.

Selina unceremoniously crawled into his lap once he made room for her and sat back in the chair. They shared the bowl of cereal, but she told him to make his own damn coffee. He secreted sips of the brew anyways. The news continued, and she wiggled around to tap out a correspondence or two to the government official he'd gotten in touch with for her.

His thief apparently had a wide range of prospects in the private and government sector. His contact with the Feds were very keen on getting her in their financial fraud prevention taskforce, on top of skirting his inquiries about anyone looking for a veteran in the certain field she was trained in. Selina was the insider opinion every financial firm in the country wanted, and her classified inbox he'd set up for her filled daily with inquiries after his contact put the word out that she was on the market.

"I could get used to being legitimate," she said around a mouthful of cereal, tapping away a reply to some cyber security firm in Manhattan. They wanted to have her on a trial basis for three months as a consultant concerning a few fraud and theft cases committed with their finance clients – Citibank, Merril Lynch, and so forth. The bigwigs of financial management.

Said contact also wanted to know what  _he_ might be willing to sign up for. Investigations were piling up with the Department of Defense, she said. The Central Intelligence Agency as well. They both needed a keen eye in the field, and Bruce already had the resources at his disposal to travel abroad and take a look for them. The contact said without saying that she knew Bruce's nightly pastimes – anyone with the clues and a brain could reason out the only resident of Gotham with the time, money, and resources to blow on becoming the Batman. Bruce told her he'd sit on the idea for a while before making any real decisions.

Contractors make the big checks, his contact had added.

Bruce didn't care about the money. He just didn't want to go fallow in his late thirties before he'd even started really  _living_.

"Want to spar a bit after we get our social life out of the way?" she asked without looking back, her fingers flying nimbly across the keys.

"What do you think about taking a bit of a trip south, Selina? Maybe Florence?" he asked her while she was riveted on the screen. His hands came up to clasp her long neck between his fingers, circling his thumbs over a protruding vertebra until she made a noise and fell over his keyboard.

"Anything you want. Just keep rubbing like that."

She was getting easier to persuade. That clown bastard had advised him all those years ago to 'never start with the head, the victim gets all fuzzy.'

Opposite case when he had Selina in his hands.


	8. Cyclical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**T** he commuter train to Florence was spacious, very modern and separated into neat compartments. Bruce managed to snag first-class tickets the next morning, and thankfully the weather had warmed up. Selina had cracked their window, the warm breeze slicing in as the train clipped through the countryside from Milan.

Tuscany was as beautiful as he heard it would be, and he could barely pry Selina away from the window. The sunflowers were in bloom, and the thick stalks jutted up from fields of ripening wheat in the strong sun.

He was fiddling with the tablet he brought along, skimming through more of the Gotham press releases with all the local newspapers and their web archives. Obsessive behavior didn't retire, it seemed.

The Wayne Foundation was bouncing back with the revenue garnered from Wayne Enterprises – the clean energy campaign was a hit, and some vague mention of an expanding cyber division had more companies investing in the Wayne projects. Government contracts, especially.

Crime was down. That was comforting. Commissioner Gordon was reinstated for another five years along with some new political big shot that had campaigned his way into the mayoral office, and the force was putting through their largest ever graduating class of cadets for Gotham P.D.

Blake was flying under the radar, so to speak.

"No Batman sightings, I take it?" Selina said from her seat across from him. The compartment was private, and he checked the pane of glass facing out towards the hall. No one was passing by.

"Not even suspicious arrests or crazy tabloid exposés. I'm starting to think I needed to leave a note on the fridge – maybe a thorough manual."

"Well, did you?" Her eyebrow shot up.

"Computer files – the ultimate video log explaining what sort of responsibility he'd have to shoulder. Everything from the tumbler, the computer mainframe, the suit, to the  _other_ Bat. I told him to trust Lucius, and I had a letter delayed and mailed to him in the event of my death explaining the big, final plan. Gave him Blake's name as a possibility."

"Sort of shoved the robin out of the nest and expected him to fly, dear," she said dryly, but quieted down after tapping out an email on the tablet's screen.

"Proofread," she sing-songed, handing it back and absorbing herself in a magazine. Bruce smiled ruefully, glancing over the screen.

_To: Dr. Amanda Waller_

_From: EMAIL CLASSIFIED_

_Dr. Waller,_

_I've received your invoice concerning the payment for my consulting services in relation to the FDIC hacking – thank you for your patience and generosity in this matter._

_Hoping to work further with you,_

_Selina Kyle_

"Beautiful. You don't even sound like a smartass," he said, pointedly looking up from the tablet after hitting the 'send' button.

"I just think it turned out to be pure karma. The guy who was actually  _committing_ the hacking was the same asshole who'd swooped in on my score. Remember the old man I was chatting up at Tate's gala, with the wife in Ibiza? Snagged her diamonds before I had a chance to steal them fair and square, since  _you_ blew my cover with the husband."

"You were a real opportunist there, Selina. I think I did a public service by throwing you off the scent. You just made a commission check worth more than the cost of those diamonds at the maximum rate."

"Can't argue with that. Good business," she agreed, sliding over to his seat to bunch her body up into a tight ball, tucking her sundress around her legs and resting her head lightly on his shoulder. His arm came around her waist, and he buried his nose into the sun warmed hair on the crown of her head.

 _Bloom of jasmine today._ He took a deep, cleansing inhale that was purely Selina.

"What do you think this Dr. Waller knows about you and me concerning our location?"

"Probably suspects we're hiding out somewhere exotic like Ibiza or Monaco," he replied, easing his head back against the thin wall to rest his eyes.

"It's pronounced 'Ibitha'. Don't want anyone thinking you're not the verbose, elitist billionaire everyone believes you to be." That had an eye cracking open to peer at his thief. Selina just furled her lips – done up in a very attractive blush color today – and showed her pearly teeth.

"Technically 'elitist millionaire' due to  _crushing_ financial losses thanks to the lovely lady at my side. See? You catch on quick, Kyle."

"I told you I was sorry," she said, almost sounding offended. But she wasn't. He leaned in and quieted her down with a hard kiss.

Rail travel being freakishly fast, they were loading off only three hours after boarding in Milan. The station was smack-dab in the center of Florence, and he had to jog to keep up with Selina as she wove her way around the throngs of tourists and locals alike towards the Arno. Her hand was tugging at his wrist in her enthusiasm, and she clutched tightly at the sling bag she'd brought with a few of their belongings.

The river wasn't crystal clear, but its waters ran strong and sparkling under the arched bridges layered across the span. Selina slowed them both to a walk, leaning over the railing to gaze at the jumble of houses built across the Ponte Vecchio.

Bruce tugged the woman to his side, but she was practically vibrating with energy as she chatted on about the amount of priceless Renaissance art remaining in Florence.

"No heists, young lady."

"A girl can dream, can't she?" Her sundress was whipping around her bare knees in the light breeze. The blue brought out the blush in her cheeks, and he got the most appealing view of her face when she pulled back her long hair like she did today.

"A girl can behave."

"Don't rain on my parade, Mr. Wayne," she trilled in his ear, tugging him down to slant her curved mouth over his in a long, slow kiss that left him burning.

"Kidding. I'll just be obnoxiously contrite and doting – have to settle with the living sculpture of your body to steal," she practically purred, her dark eyes lighting up as she tugged insistently on his undone button-down.

"Can't exactly steal what's yours, can you?"

"You've got a point, Mr. Wayne," she said, rolling his surname off her tongue and looping an arm through his as they strolled through the throng of tourists and street vendors.

The café was really a busy spot, but like Alfred said it had the perfect view of the Arno. He flagged down one of the wait staff and secured them a small table. Selina was practicing her growing fluency in Italian with the waiter when Bruce finally saw him.

He looked good. Completely healthy, and in the normal routine of things like Bruce had predicted. Got his usual table, ordered his drink, and sat staring at the throngs of diners in the café before those old eyes landed on Bruce's table.

Alfred downed his drink, and seemed to stare right through him until he really focused. Then a slow, sure smile spread across the old gentleman's wrinkled face. Bruce felt his throat tighten in a knot.

Bruce smiled back at his old mentor over Selina's bare shoulder. His old guardian nodded, and Bruce felt everything had come full circle in that very moment.

The old man rose from his table, straightening his sports jacket and shuffling out of the café like he had always wanted. To know, without words, that his former ward had made it past the grief, the anger. Had finally come down to a human level from the pedestal the Batman had shoved him up on, and ultimately lived to find someone to share in the calm that came afterwards.

_I'm happy, Alfred._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to call it even and say the software update was discovered six months from the time before Bane got his hands on the bomb, since Bruce no doubt fixed that glitch as soon as he got the Bat. Therefore the story at this point is taking place at least two months after Lucius has discovered the software update, the estate has been divided up, spring is here, and Robin John Blake has taken up the cowl. Amanda Waller is also the property of DC Comics – for those that don't recall her, she's the head of Project Cadmus and an on again, off again acquaintance of Bruce Wayne/Batman.


	9. Roles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**"** _Chimpanzee_?" Selina squawked. The entire table dissolved into laughter, and it didn't pick back up until everyone had caught some air and calmed down.

"I wasn't lying – I was ready to phone the Gotham Zoo and have them doll up Coco the chimp just so Master Wayne would get some exposure for once," Alfred chimed in that sophisticated cockney accent, his face ruddy with good scotch and the humor passing around at his former ward and employer's expense. "Though if I may be so bold to say, Miss Kyle, you're a vast improvement from my idea of bagging a primate."

She nearly fell out of her seat, clutching a hand over her eyes and shaking silently with laughter. The small dollop of claret in her glass slopped out over the sides from all the quaking, but she didn't care about the sticky liquor soaking her camisole.

These last months had been the happiest in her life, but tonight had her sides  _aching_  from the amount of wonderful anecdotes Alfred Pennyworth had cultivated over the years. Especially centering on Bruce. The man of the hour was soaking up the laughter, being a good sport about all of it. Selina still saw the crinkles around his eyes in his effort to keep a straight face, though. She caught Bruce's gaze and held it, cracking up when she saw his mouth split out of its serious line into a wide grin.

"Coco sounded a bit too high maintenance for me, Alfred," Bruce droned, knocking back another sip of brandy from his glass.

"Indeed, Master Wayne, I figured as much. Though this is coming from the man who treats Lamborghinis like disposable tissues," he quipped, and Selina crunched up even further in laughter. She'd be crying at this rate.

Selina was not an easy woman to intimidate. But the night she cased the Wayne mansion, she felt real nervousness around the starchy butler. It almost gave her a shock when she opened their chiming door this morning to a well-dressed Alfred Pennyworth clutching his hat to his chest, his sedan parked right next to their Mercedes.

She'd been sincere in her subsequent apologies about violating the rule about leaving the tray on the table and removing oneself right away from Bruce's old sanctuary in that vacant wing of the mansion, but the old gentleman had taken it in stride and forgiven her very graciously. He didn't even mind the theft of the pearls, saying that they suited and 'Master Wayne' was wise to find a woman worthy enough to wear the late Martha Wayne's prized necklace.

The old man made her blush with that compliment he paid. Bruce and Alfred had embraced after she led their first guest into the kitchen, and Selina had quietly cleared out to give them time to talk. Bruce had relayed to her a few weeks ago their final words to one another before Alfred had dismissed himself from service – she imagined some bridges needed water running under them and whatnot before she inserted herself into the conversation.

So Selina had hopped into her running shoes and breezy shorts for a quick run towards the south shore of the lake, waving back at the growing number of people on her usual jogging trails. Summer was coming, and with the summer came the rich who packed up their lives in their various cities around the world and came to Lake Como for vacationing. Varenna was now like a little metropolis with all the activity buzzing around it, and Selina was grateful that Bruce had the foresight to pick a place off the beaten path. Privacy was her creed and code.

Dinner was on the table by the time she came through the door, sweaty and redfaced. Alfred was nursing a glass of wine, Bruce apparently proving a point by actually making the dinner for once.

"Well, Miss Kyle, I'm sufficiently blown over that you've managed to domesticate Master Wayne," he'd said, a twinkle in his eye as he raised the glass to his lips.

"I think it's the other way around, but I'll take the credit," she'd laughed.

They went out to the usual table on the veranda overlooking the lake. Some late-night boaters were still tearing it up further out on the water, but they weren't obnoxiously close to their little marbled jetty and terrace. It was a wonderful spread – a light helping of muscles basted in white wine with a generous helping of various pastas. Bruce kept the fare simple and light, but Selina thought her nose picked up the distinctive scent of biscotti warming in the oven somewhere.

_All buyers beware if you move to Italy – carbs are your friend, whether you want them or not._

And so, the three with all the history between them broke their bread and laughed themselves into oblivion after the huge meal. They ambled into the living room after clearing away their plates, and Selina fulfilled her end of the bargain by insisting on cleaning up since Bruce had cooked this time around.

The two men retreated to give her room to work in the kitchen, and when she joined them again the GCN was playing on the screen. They weren't paying it a bit of attention, though. Too absorbed in a chess game.

"I figure it about time for me to take my leave," Alfred grumbled after Bruce had hit his stride and checkmated him in the last three games. Bruce rose, clasping his old retainer in a tight hug before Selina slunk off her seat to extend her hand for a shake. Alfred really was a charmer – he bent over it and kissed the air over the top of her hand like some gentleman caller.

"A pleasure formally making your acquaintance, Miss Kyle. Bruce." They all exchanged smiles, and the three trailed out towards the door before Bruce dismissed himself to take care of something in the office. Selina stared at Alfred's retreating back as he went out into the twilight.

"Alfred," she called, ducking out the door and jogging to catch up with his brisk pace. He paused, staring politely at her as she scrambled across the crushed rock of the drive.

"Would you…maybe just consider coming back? Just to stay on for a while? Bruce needs you more than he knows himself," she said, awkwardly trying to find the right wording for it. But Alfred seemed to make sense of her jumbled up explanation, quietly inclining his head in that very stoic manner of his.

"I shall make that consideration, Miss Kyle, but Bruce is his own man."

"He  _needs_  you, Alfred, in his life. You're the closest thing he's had to a father since that night. At least come stay with us for a few weeks, and then decide."

"I suppose I could come and keep the both of you out of any abysmal state of disrepair," he said warmly after a moment of consideration, a twinkle in his eye as he turned and climbed into his sedan. Selina tucked her arms in to hug herself, waving him goodbye as he pulled off towards the gates.

Alfred did return the next morning, his leisurely suits replaced by the stark, black attire she remembered him wearing. Bruce didn't oppose, roping the old man in to their normal routine. Though now Selina imagined the stress was off the relationship with Bruce's newfound retirement and peace.

He took up in the other bedroom that'd stood vacant at the end of the hall on the first floor, practically in its own wing. Selina thought that was for the best – her old room wasn't exactly far enough away from the master bedroom she and Bruce shared. And noise did carry in this old house…

One change she had to acclimate herself to was the fact that Alfred did what Alfred felt was necessary – that included serving every meal, tending to the outlying gardens, cleaning, laundry. She was suddenly finding her and Bruce's auxiliary roles as housekeepers on top of mutual residents were unnecessary anymore.

It took some serious adjustment on her part. Bruce fell into it like routine, simply dragging her out of the house more often. They had a small clearing set off to the side on the grounds where he routinely walloped the shit out of her in sparring, but she was catching on quick to his moves.

"I'm not used to being waited on hand and foot," she'd grumbled from her spot on the ground. He'd sent her sprawling with as gentle as a roundhouse kick he could manage. Bruce had mastered all forms of martial combat in his years, it seemed. She was more up to scale on the brawling, fluid type of street fighting she'd developed in her years getting by in the Gotham slums. Bruce knew every sophisticated form of unarmed combat.

"It's not all that bad once you just learn to accept that it's his role – it's what fulfills him."

"I got by my whole life on what little I had before I started scoring a bigger income from all the upper crust of society. I don't  _need_  to be waited on."

"And on that note, what was that about making the irresponsible, frivolous buy for those designer shoes sitting untouched in the closet?" He tutted, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"I'll return them tomorrow. Donate the money to something useful instead. Those pinch my feet."

"Says the woman who trotted around in five inch heels for most of her illegitimate career."

"Four and a  _half_ inch heels, thank you," she corrected him, "And on a side note, those served as much of a use as any one of your little toys did."

"Serrated edge on the stiletto – reinforced steel. You're walking on knives, Kyle," he grinned in her face, pinning her with an arm across her throat. Not anything constricting, but enough to make her wheeze and wiggle around like a fish caught on the line. But Bruce was getting sloppy and forgetting to watch his points.

She brought her leg up none too gently between his, and he reeled back to collapse on the grass after the force of her thigh slammed into his groin.

"Want me to kiss it better?" she cooed, gently riding her knee up between to nudge at the afflicted area.

"Selina," he groaned in a high-pitched whine, and for a moment she could squint and envision the little X marks over his eyes. Low blows like that could even incapacitate the Batman.

"Oh, Bruce," she said, a bit mollified by the pain he was hunched up in. Then he just fanned out laughing.

"Ass," she hissed, punching at his chest. Bruce had to have the highest tolerance of pain she'd ever witnessed. Apparently his bits were subject to the high threshold of pain as well.

He tugged her down to the ground with him, sprawling her out under his bulk with a contented hum. "So. You'll let Alfred do what he does best and keep out of his hair? It's his thing – it's what makes him content."

"Deal," she sighed.

"Now, help me up, Kyle. I'm still sore."

She groaned about him being an overgrown man child, reaching down to help him up. But he just rose up on one knee in his sweatpants and old Princeton shirt, grinning.

He was kneeling.

"Bruce," she said in a guarded tone, but the little box was already out and opened before she could manage another warning shot.

The ring she recognized from the safe she'd cracked almost a year ago. It was passed over in favor of the necklace for a steal, but she wouldn't have pawned either of them for their beauty. She had wanted them for herself to match the set.

His mother's ring.

"Selina Kyle – would you do me the honor?"

No words were really needed. Her hands were shaking when she lifted the glimmering ring out of the bed of velvet. It could've been chalk mounted for the stone and she wouldn't have cared. Tiny, minute seed pearls braced the ovular diamond on the platinum band.

Selina had him back against the springy turf before he could ask again or change his mind about marrying a crook like her, kissing the breath out of him until they broke apart for want of air. His eyes held that same calm peace she saw the day she breathed life back into him – the peace she now mirrored. The peace they both wanted in their lives. Unity was a thing she'd never imagined she'd achieve with another person, let alone one of marriage.

But she was happy. Bruce was happy. They could work it out and be happy until they were old and grey, with luck.

"I'll take that as a yes."


	10. Jest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**I** t started out like any other typical day. She was en route to Munich to rendezvous with an old contact in relation to another case Amanda Waller had put her on – more contract work and consulting in connection to a break-in at the Cadmus labs in D.C.

Bruce and she had decided on a small, informal ceremony in Varenna about a month ago. The priest had all his credentials, and they signed off on the proper licenses with Alfred being their sole signing witness. No frills. Just a simple cut dress the local seamstress had fashioned out of yards of fine Burmese silk with lacey applique. A scooped, shallow neckline showed off the pearls well, and the tone of the cloth was of the same pearlescent quality. Full sleeves fit snuggly to her wrists, and the train was just two feet of fabric – the entire affair very formfitting to where it clung to her like a second skin before flaring out at the knees.

Alfred had said in a very choked up voice that it resembled the dress Bruce's mother had worn on her wedding day. None the less, he'd locked arms with her and escorted her down the aisle in the little town chapel. Selina had been a bit hesitant about asking him to do her the honor, fearing that she was overstepping her boundaries. But Alfred just smiled and nodded. Bruce had been waiting with the priest towards the front, the chapel otherwise empty. A worsted wool suit in black with crisp lapels made him look every inch the young, successful man he was. But he was smiling straight at her, and for once Selina Kyle had trouble keeping her balance as Alfred guided her through the pews.

The small limestone church had to be older than two centuries, and the Madonna held the Christ Child rendered in a heartbreakingly beautiful idol at the front of the chapel. A smaller, more narcissistic part of her wanted a larger wedding for Bruce's sake. Selina had far and few people to fill up the bride's side, though. So did Bruce.

But then she reminded herself that she was the girl that got by on what she needed.

And all she needed was Bruce standing stoic at her side, staring straight and calm at her as he recited his vows to honor, cherish, love, and obey.

Selina tucked away her wedding photo into the wallet slot like all normal married women did, stashing the tooled leather away in her purse. She was stopping over in a small pub before the contact arrived when her eyes fell on the news reel scrolling across the television mounted over the bar. It was an international press release from the BBC, luckily, and in English.

"Turn it up, please," she said in her meager German to the barkeep. The portly man passed off her glass of water and tuned up the volume on the flat screen.

"… _and we're just getting confirmation – yes, it is confirmed. At ten o'clock eastern standard time this morning, the building of Wayne Enterprises was put in a state of lockdown after a group of unidentified, masked assailants entered the annual stockholders meeting. Our affiliate network in the United States is reporting a death toll of at least twenty, inclusive of almost half the board of directors for Wayne Enterprises. The number of injuries sustained from the situation is unconfirmed. We now go live to the scene as Mary Harridan reports for GCN."_

" _-and in view of this, this group of no more than five or six apparently entered the Wayne Enterprises headquarters here in Gotham and made a clean getaway. What the goal of the violent surgical strike was remains unclear, but the death toll has risen to at least twenty-two confirmed cases."_

She didn't wrench her eyes away from the screen when her cell went haywire in her purse.

"Bruce," she said quietly into the phone.

"I'm watching it."

Selina felt the pit of her stomach fall out when the screen panned to an aerial shot of the Wayne Enterprises building from a helicopter camera. Bodies were strung out of the highest story.

A bright, red scrawl of paint was slapped across the side of the dark building in huge, bold letters. Right under the Wayne name.

_HA, HA, HA._

Some crude jester icon was signed like an artist's signature below the fresh, bloody color.

"It's him," Bruce said, anger lacing his tone.

"You don't  _owe_ these people anymore, Bruce," she half-way shouted into the phone, but Selina knew this wasn't a point she could argue. He'd have to go back. "At least hold the flight until I get back down. The next train leaves in thirty minutes, and it'll take at least six hours."

"Don't take public transport – rent a car and stay on the main roads. Don't make any stops. Don't  _talk_ to anyone. I have no clue how much he knows. Stay on the line until you're in Milan and warn me if you see  _anything_  suspicious – am I clear, Selina?" Well, here was Bruce at his most serious.

"Crystal," she gritted out, throwing her cell in the purse and leaving a few euros on the bar top. Hailing a cab, she directed him towards the more industrial part of Munich. An exotic dealership was selected, and she headed in after a quick trip to a nearby bank to access her account.

"I need the fastest thing you've got," she explained calmly to the man behind the dealership desk in broken German. He seemed to get the point when she upended the massive amount of bills onto his workspace. Money broke down language barriers efficiently, she'd discovered.

A shady little electronics store had a police scanner sold to her with no questions asked. She shelled out the cash for that and was on the road in less than twenty minutes after the initial call with Bruce.

The showroom had a Saleen S7 Twin Turbo imported from the states. Poor guy had protested that it wasn't for sale, but she dumped another check for one hundred thousand on top of the six hundred thousand in plain euros she'd forked over. Everyone had their price.

But this black, low-riding beast was worth every inflated European bill as it flew across the roads of Bavaria. The Austro-Germanic border went by in a blur, and the scanner rarely picked up a blip concerning the local police checking for speeders. Soon she was passing through Verona, preferring to take the less winding mountain passes to cut down on gas and spare the brakes.

_That would've been one hell of a speeding fine – if they could catch up._

She topped out at one hundred and ninety miles per hour during a particular straight stretch of road.

Selina pulled the sports car up into the cargo hold of the small Gulfstream they had housed in a rental hanger at MXP in Milan after precisely three hours and fifty-five minutes on the road. Bruce had handed her off to Alfred on their continuous phone call, and the old butler had assured her the plane sported the carrying capacity to take the new toy along with their belongings. The Batpod was still under lock and key in a cargo container in the hold.

"Record time, Missus Wayne," Alfred shouted as she helped him secure the car down with some orange safety cables in the hold. Bruce was already up at the controls, shutting the bay door and taxiing out onto the runway.

"So everything got packed?" she asked Alfred as they made their way up towards the cabin, tugging off her blazer and shedding her sunglasses.

"Everything but the furniture – I took the liberty of contacting a cleaning service to mind the villa while you and Master Wayne are gone. I intend on returning with the two of you, if you don't object to the idea, ma'am."

"Thanks, Alfred," she murmured, shooting him a look of gratitude. It might've been even harder for him to accept that Bruce  _needed_  to show his face in Gotham again, considering the circumstances. Which was the face that needed to be shown, though? The Batman or Bruce Wayne?

_Hard to call._

"He wanted to stay dead to the world with you, ma'am. But you and I both know that…this particular ghost of the past can't be dealt with by Mr. Blake and Commissioner Gordon alone. Too much between him and Master Bruce for him to not feel partially responsible for his escape. Too much blood spilled. Should've given that lunatic the axe, but his defense team pled him out on insanity."

"Shocker," she muttered, easing herself into the cabin's cushy seat to buckle in. Alfred retreated towards the front cockpit. God knows how many years of military and intelligence experience made him a more qualified copilot than her. Bruce was too intent on takeoff, but he shot a small, sure smile over his shoulder that she returned after they had gotten airborne. Selina's hands were restless, twisting the solid weight of her engagement ring and wedding band resting so surely on her finger. The platinum glinted, and the diamonds had a sparkle in the dim cabin light.

_Missus Wayne._

They were both going home.

Back to Gotham, and the chaos one Joker was instilling in the populace yet again.


	11. Correlated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**C** ameras were as blinding as strobes – clicking incessantly in their faces as he guided Selina through another row of paparazzi. Alfred had reopened the penthouse in town ahead of them, and security had been increased tenfold.

"Mr. Wayne! Who's the lovely lady?"

A discreet click to a small device in his coat pocket had a small electro-magnetic pulse sent out. The cameras and video recorders all powered off, and the throng of reporters and journalist groaned.

"Wait! She's got a  _ring_!" screeched some muckraking floozy from the gossip column who apparently turned out to be the most perceptive of this bunch.

The hotel staff shut the door on the tide of human bodies hammering on the glass. Selina let out a low whistle, tugging the brim of her wide hat down over her eyes. She was done up in a very fetching designer suit and pencil skirt, heels in place as she clicked alongside him.

The morning titles of tomorrow's newspapers would be interesting. Maybe  _Bruce Wayne Back from the Dead – Again!_ Or  _Desperate Beauty Weds Crazed Former Billionaire!_ Something funny and inventive. His running favorite was  _Drunken Billionaire Burns Down Home_  from the year Ra's Al Ghul and his goon squad set his house on fire. Good times.

The penthouse was a really overblown deal on the top floor of a posh hotel the company had bought out. He'd renovated it a bit more to his tastes, but the airy sanctuary still boasted seven bedrooms, six baths, and two really  _massive_ ballrooms that ran the span of the floor. He hadn't lived in it since the manor's repairs had been completed almost nine years ago – since the Joker had crashed the party, sufficiently pissing in all of Gotham's morning cereal over the next few weeks of chaotic terrorism.

"Wow," said Selina after they'd taken the private elevator up to the top floor. The city seemed to sprawl out before the glassy walls. He'd need drapes or something installed. So much time gone by had made him forget that this place was basically the open glass box where anyone could peek in.

"Evening! Master Wayne, Missus Wayne – there's a light dinner in the dining room if you'd like to serve yourselves. I'll be directing the luggage up the freight elevator if you should need me."

"Thanks, Alfred," the two of them chorused. They waited until the butler was securely in the kitchen before glancing over the modest spread of soup and sandwiches on the long glass table.

"I called Gordon. He'll meet us downtown in fifteen," he explained after she'd checked the spare bedrooms for any unwelcome guests. The penthouse was secure for now, but Selina tucked away a Walther P-22 in the inside of her blazer after he'd shown her the armory in the small, secreted room off of their new bedroom.

Still didn't agree with his 'no guns' policy. But in this case, he could see the need for one. He didn't want her needing one and not having it over having one and not needing it.

"Taxi?" she asked, and he shook his head in a 'no'.

"Let's get the Lambourghini, then."

Bruce had the penthouse, the Rolls Royce, and the Lamborghini left out of the estate estimation and his will. All were put on hold and kept secure on a line of credit linked to the company during his absence in the off chance he'd need the resources in returning to Gotham. Now that he was among the living, so to speak, all were going back onto their accounts of ownership.

The two cars were in the parking garage beneath the hotel, under tarps and in a secluded deck. "Had to have something to fall back on," he explained after Selina's speculative look at the uncovered Lambo. The old Lamborghini Murciélago LP640 that had been lost in action almost nine years ago was replaced with this new chromed silver Lamborghini Aventador with black accents.

It fit the bill for an alcoholic, asinine playboy pretty well.

"We'll take your Saleen when it's time for you to drive, sweetheart," he soothed Selina, but she rolled her eyes and smacked him across the shoulder with her clutch at the condescending tone.

"Don't turn on your asshole charm in private, darling."

"Got it," he said back, lifting his eyebrow in that pseudo suave way to coax a laugh out of his normally serious wife. One of them had to be the wiseass.

They pulled up to a posh, upscale eatery off of Broad Street, the scissor doors of the Lambo groaning on the hydraulics as they lifted up to show the long, trim legs of Selina. A few paparazzi hounds were clicking away from the entrance, and he shot them his typical charming grin as he escorted her in. The valet just sort of stared bug-eyed at the Lambo, clutching the keys Bruce had passed him like a lifeline.

Gordon looked out of place in the glittering, high-end restaurant in his ratty trench and cheap suit. He kept shoving up his square frame glasses onto the bridge of his nose, and a liberal smattering of grey was starting to creep into his hair. He clasped Bruce's hand in a hard, enthusiastic shake.

Noise was bubbling up from tables as they passed through the busy dining area. Everyone kept looking up, pointing and gasping.

"Bruce Wayne?"

"Thought he was dead!"

"Apparently not – who's the woman?

"Why's he scraping around with the police commissioner?"

Various little inquiries like that were made as they passed – not directly at them, but tables were buzzing with speculation. They picked a spot in a far corner, relatively out of the way. Bruce delayed introductions like the careless bore the world thought him to be, suddenly seeming to remember Selina as he pushed her forward towards Gordon.

"Commissioner Gordon – don't believe you've met my wife. Selina, Commissioner Gordon."

"Commissioner," she said, extending her hand as her face morphed into a harmless, charming mask that disarmed most. But Gordon wasn't fooled. He fixed her with a look that brooked no funny business and shook the offered hand, and then glanced over to Bruce.

"Figured you two would show. You saw the shootings?"

"That would be what brought us over," Selina supplied, easing down into her seat after Bruce had pulled it out obligingly. The wait staff fluttered about, taking down their orders and retreating after uncorking a complimentary bottle of Moët. All of them sipped the too-rich champagne sparingly, and Bruce edged his chair around to get a full view of all the entrances and exits to the dining room.

"There are a few things the press didn't disclose. Fox is alright – just riddled up real bad in the leg. Might need a crutch for the rest of his life. Only about six out of the board of directors survived, so I suggest you do a little housekeeping before starting anything, Mr. Wayne."

"Didn't know you had a degree in business management, commissioner. Now tell me, how's Detective Blake doing?" Bruce eased back in his chair, draping a lazy arm over the back of Selina's as she scooted closer. Her eyes were fixed on his blind spot and the tables behind them.

She always had his back.

"Alright, considering how  _generous_  you were in your will towards him. He quit the force – doing private investigations. Or so I hear." Gordon's mouth was fixed into a tight, controlled smile. He knew about the new role Blake was playing in the safeguarding of Gotham.

"Excellent. We'll drop in. Think I have his new address somewhere…" he trailed off, eyeing the group one table over. They were eavesdropping on their conversation pretty blatantly.

"Can I expect you and your wife later tonight at the precinct? Maybe drag Blake out of his hiding place. I've got a lovely new lighting fixture I'm sure you'll all be fascinated by," he said, tight lipped. Gordon wanted to talk somewhere private, and with both of them armored and ready.

"We'll think about it. Still a bit jetlagged," Selina slid in smoothly, leaning over to catch Bruce's arm.

"Darling, we've kept the commissioner long enough. I think we've all touched base sufficiently?" she trilled off the question, and Gordon nodded. Their little public appearance was made, and Gordon got his message out. They'd really crack down once Bruce had ferreted out the full details of the Joker's new motivation.

And how the clowning bastard had gotten out of Arkham in the first place.

All three of them clipped neatly out of the restaurant after making a show of eating a decent meal, tipping generously while he and Selina braced each other like a drunken couple. The crowd bought it, conversation blooming in their wake as Gordon split off towards his parked car.

The path towards the cave was overgrown, but the low riding Lambo plowed through the weeds and weak saplings. He'd brought the proper gear to swing them into the cavern, and Selina did well considering she was sporting heels in the overgrown thicket by the waterfall.

He couldn't prevent them getting soaked as they swung through the sheets of water into the maw of the cavern, but both landed spry and without any injury. Selina slugged through the water and clipped off her harness, shaking out her wet hair and peering around the dimly lit cave.

"Blake?" he shouted, the sound reverberating off the walls. Bats chittered in the dark recess overhead as he helped Selina up the ledge onto the paved walkway. He felt like an intruder in his own sanctuary. The surreal quality of it all was tangible.

"You're both in luck. Just got the files and video feed from the Arkham breakout," a voice said from behind him.

"So that's what that feels like," Bruce muttered to himself as Blake breezed past them from a shadowed alcove towards the computer platform. All the widescreens were lit up with various logs, records, and continuous video feed from both outside the cave and other weak spots. Especially the freight elevator entrance that led up to the mansion, but Bruce was confident Blake had shut that down. Couldn't have at-risk-youth and orphans romping around down here.

He saw the both of them coming from at least a mile off, if not when their plane radioed into the Gotham airport.

"Constant vigilance, eh Bruce?" Blake joked, easing himself into the seat in front of the computer mainframe. He was favoring his right side, and a few fresh lacerations were apparent on his face and bared arms.

"Good policy. You remember Selina?"

"Mrs. Wayne," Blake nodded, and Selina gave him a tight smile. She'd told Bruce how Blake had caught onto her little evidence trail after Bane had broken him, subsequently halting her flight from Gotham and putting her away in Blackgate for a few days before the prison populace had been freed.

"No hard feelings," she said after a tense moment of silence. "Orange wasn't my color, though."

Blake cracked a grin, turning towards the screen to point out a few key details. Bruce had already read them.

"I've been screening everyone who has had access to his wing for the last eight years. So has Gordon. We compared notes and came up with the same conclusion. Apparently Joan Leland, the psychiatrist assigned to him for psychoanalysis, slipped up. Had some first year resident fresh out of GSU come in to observe off the books and made it routine. The girl was apparently 'writing a biography' concerning high-profile psychotics."

"So this intern basically walked in without the proper mental fortitude, and he crawled under her skin well enough to manipulate her?" Blake spoke up, swiveling around in the chair to face them. His face was haggard and his body had lost most of the spare fat health brought you. He wasn't eating or sleeping properly.

"Apparently. She went off the deep end and busted him out – took out a slew of guards in the process and pulled off some impossible stunts. Got into GSU on this gymnastics scholarship and she's got a fair amount of history in the martial arts. But if the body count says anything, she's learning her way around a firearm or two."

"So who's the lucky girl?" Selina asked, completely incredulous.

Bruce squinted at the screen, reading the name twice to confirm. It was a weird one. "Some young psychologist. Doctor Harleen Quinzel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joan Leland and Harleen Quinzel/Harley Quinn both belong to DC Comics – I do not claim creative rights to those characters.


	12. Transcendence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**G** otham General had been rebuilt only five years beforehand on his funding – a new wing added to the Wayne name in honor of the generous donation and yearly stipend from the Wayne Foundation. He parked the car and strode out into the muggy heat of the summer night, the bright glare of the lobby making him squint. The name over the hospital wing made him grin.

He'd had it named in honor of his father – Dr. Thomas Wayne. It was fitting.

_Remember when dad used to come home after being on call all night, smelling like latex from his surgical gloves and rubbing alcohol?_

"Visiting hours are over, sir," said one of the on duty nurses after he'd gotten off the elevator on the proper floor. Her strict expression fell away at the sight of his face. "Mr. Wayne!"

"Here to see Lucius Fox, if he's feeling up to it."

"Of…course, Mr. Wayne – give me just a minute," she mumbled, scrambling down the sterile, quiet hallway towards a row of private rooms in the ICU.

She came back to fetch him, the nurse's station all abuzz as they crowded up near the counter to watch him pass. The blips of EKGs and various monitors were chiming in the open space until the nurse shut the door on him. Bruce turned to get a look at Lucius' prone form underneath the hospital bedclothes.

He looked feeble – old. Nothing like the tall, spry inventor he'd left behind a few months ago.

"Mr. Wayne," he said as a thin and reedy voice issued from his throat. Not the strong baritone he remembered. A respirator was resting on his neck, clutched in the worn brown hand. The man lifted the mask to his mouth to take inhales off the oxygen flow periodically.

"Got two in the chest, but the leg got it the worst," he managed to wheeze out after a fortifying inhale from the respirator. Bruce scooted up the flimsy plastic chair near his bedside, minding all the cords and tubes running under the blankets into Fox's body. A twinge of guilt struck him suddenly, and he had to look away.

"I'm sorry, Lucius. About all of this."

"Don't be, Bruce. Surprised you came back, but then again I'm not. Saw that software update on the Bat, figured that day wasn't the last I'd be seeing you," he chuckled, the winkles deepening as his mouth split into a wide grin.

"Who all came in? Was it really him?"

"It was. Jokes seem to be over, now. He was all business. Started weeding out executives and stockholders at random. Saw me and thought I was dead after the fifth shot, but he didn't hit the vitals. He's even more unbalanced, seems like. A mad dog."

"Did he give any reason for the attack?"

"Bruce – you know as well as I do that he has about as much purpose for what he does as a bird has for flying. It's his nature. To breed chaos and discord like a virus, spreading it all around this city.  _His_  city, he calls it. He's out for your blood, Bruce. The Batman."

"Does he know who I am?" A cold tendril was starting to creep up his spine. He shouldn't have left Selina alone with Blake. Neither was ready for the Joker.  _She_  wasn't safe.

"He's had close to nine years to obsess over your identity. Not a stretch for the average person to imagine Bruce Wayne as the Batman. Won't expose you – just wants to draw you out, draw Blake out. He got a look at Blake and knew it wasn't you. Started hacking into the mainframe at the company that day on my personal terminal with a hired technician. Found the accounts I was hiding, all the applied science files with the prototype designs. It was like he had a hunch and was proving it right by busting in and gunning the board down. The way I figure it, he's had a harder time accepting you were dead than most people that actually knew you did."

Bruce gritted his teeth, his knuckles turning white as his fingers twisted further. Turning claw like, they bit blood into his palms.

"You completed him, Bruce. You were the unmovable object in his way. He wants you back for whatever purpose – the only purpose. To complete him, and begin the cycle anew."

"He wants the Batman. Not Bruce Wayne," he muttered, his fingers twisting into knots in his lap.

"There comes a time in a man's life when sacrifices must be made. You, on the other hand, have made the ultimate sacrifice time and again. Now it's up to you – do you sit this one out and let Blake prove that the symbol can be as enduring as you'd hoped it would become? That no matter how hard the Joker tries, someone will always be there to safeguard Gotham? Because of the faith you gave the people, your deeds rose above the idea of a mortal man who could bleed, feel, and be killed. You've set up the stage for it all, Bruce. Now it's time to let it ride."

Bruce thought over the words of the older man, silence permeating the room. He had no right answer for Lucius. Fox sighed, sinking back into his pillows.

"You and I are in no state to go saving the world, Mr. Wayne. The Batman died a hero that day, and now a new era is dawning in Gotham. One that requires a younger man's body to sacrifice – a man with nothing to lose. Someone with that channeled, tempered anger and righteous sense you had. You've got something to lose now, Bruce. Someone to lose. Before it was this highhanded notion of keeping the city safe and fulfilling vengeance for past deeds done. But you've laid your ghosts to rest. Even that clown coming back doesn't mean you've got to go throw your life away again to chase him down, despite what he did to Dent and Rachel Dawes. We've all got something to lose. But Blake can do this, if you let him. Have faith," he said in that sure, strong tone. A weathered brown hand reached out to clasp Bruce's, shaking fiercely.

"It's all we've got in the end," Lucius muttered, his eyes closing shut as exhaustion overtook his broken body. "Check the bunker – left a few things down there for you and the other two before we cleared out applied sciences."


	13. Inquiry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**H** e'd been smug to start off with. But smug wasn't cute with her. As everyone had their price, everyone had their breaking point. Blake was too busy with actually investigating the Joker's old cell to bother with interrogating his next door neighbor. Jonathan Crane had been recommitted to Arkham Asylum after Bane's occupation. No one could really give a reason for his escape, but Selina had a sinking suspicion that he'd been transferred to Blackgate during the time. His behavior outside of the correctional institution had shown his less than stellar recovery, though.

Acting as judge, jury, and executioner to the wealthy didn't win you friends.

Arkham had escaped the iron-fist of the League of Shadows only due to its isolated status as a small island in the heart of the city. The government had cut it off from Gotham and demolished the bridge, shipping in supplies during the occupation to keep the truly insane jailed.

"Divide and conquer," she'd said to the masked Blake after shutting the cell door in his face. He got the message – it wouldn't be pretty getting information out of the former doctor, and he had bigger fish to fry. Selina was more than happy to do the dirty work.

A brief flicker of recognition skittered across Crane's thin face when he got a good look at her in the dim light. Then he was shoved up against the wall with the flat of her boot crushing his windpipe, glasses knocked to the floor to shatter under her heel.

"Remember me?" she asked congenially after an introductory toss around in the cell, upending the rickety metal frame of his cot and making an improvised rack out of it. She'd brought some zip ties to bind his wrists with, and soon he was upright and bound to the shaking frame. Selina had ran over the usual procedural questions: who are you, what do you know. Boring things. But the doctor was recalcitrant, and had made the mistake of sneering.

The solid chunk of thin steel slid easily through the meat of Jonathan Crane's hand, the delicate bone of the metacarpal shattering with a satisfying crunch after she put her heel into the grind. The concrete wall of the cell only had a little give under the friction, and she wrenched a respectable scream out of the tight-lipped lunatic.

She should've limbered up before going out on this little impromptu jaunt to Arkham with Blake. The muscles in her ass would be screaming sore in the morning from holding this high split for so long, but she put on a brave face and really shoved the thin stiletto of her heel home.

"Alright," he gasped, his skinny chest shaking with the racking inhales of air he was sucking in because of the pain. Adrenaline was wearing off, and the real bite of splintered bones and ravaged, torn tissue was setting in.

"Ready to have that little talk, doctor?" she hummed, lowering the infrared goggles over her masked face. A side portion of the screen read the hiked up heart rate. If a person could be figured out easily enough, it helped weed out lies quite efficiently. The spike in heat, the beating of the heart subtly increasing – all telltale signs.

"What've I got to lose?" he chuckled through a mouthful of blood.

"Got to give you credit where it's due. You're tough for an intellectual. What do you say I get you moved to a minimum security cell with library access?"

"You don't have that kind of pull."

"We'll see. What've you got to lose?" she shot back, her mouth curving into a small smile.

"As long as I get that in writing," he muttered low, his eyes unfocused and staring blearily at a fixed spot on the opposite wall. He was fading, and fast.

"Deal," she gritted out. "Now talk."

"He was muttering about the Batman, raving and howling about inane things. Sometimes he'd stay quiet for months. When Doctor Quinzel started her regular  _visits_  is when he seemed to snap out of that laconic state of stupidity the anti-psychotic meds put him in. They were force fed, but I believe the good doctor started sneaking him a clarity drug or something to that effect. Hence the lucidity – he broke out about a week before these attacks I'm hearing about…but then again, I don't hear much in solitary," he said in that airy, thoughtless voice that made Selina believe he was somewhere else entirely in his mind.

"Did he give any specifics? Targets, grudges, goals?"

"Not in our brief acquaintance."

Selina's teeth ground into one another. This was getting her nowhere. "You'll get your access and accommodation upgrade once you remember something useful. Until then…" she trailed off, flicking her fingers in a mimic of a farewell gesture.

She cut the zip ties and let the emaciated body of Jonathan Crane fall to the cold floor, edging her way out of the door to key in the lockdown codes once more.

They'd cut the video feed to the wing, and the on duty charge nurses were stationed outside of the secure wing during the night shift.

Besides, who would believe a stark raving lunatic if he were to say a woman in a cat suit broke into his cell?

"Did you at least leave him in one piece?" Blake said after she'd practically led him by the nose through the vents and subterranean tunnels that ran under the island. It brought them back under the river into the Narrows, and they emerged into the cool night from a manhole in a dimly lit alley. His cycle was parked parallel to hers behind a dumpster, wedged in-between the wall and out of sight.

"Mostly. He'll live," she said vaguely, yanking the bulky frame of the Batpod out to check it over. No tampering was evident, and the alley looked deserted. "Nothing really useful, so I told him to check back when his memory was fresher. You find anything?"

"Vague idea of where he might be shacking up. Otherwise, place is clear. I'll check back in with Gordon – you need a ride home?"

"I can take care of myself, bird boy. Watch your own back," she droned, mounting up on the cycle to gun up the engine and slouch over the controls. With the Batpod, you drove more with your shoulders than anything else, leaving your hands free. She shifted the bulk of her frame against the handles, steering out of the alley towards the street with a low, humming thrum. Blake just shook his head at her, grinning ruefully under his obscure half-mask. He'd yet to really cowboy up and take on any sort of cowl – just wearing bodysuits of black Kevlar and a nondescript domino mask. Nothing theatrical or fancy.

But the utility belt and various gadgets had the distinctive black matte and steel finish of the Batman emblazoned on them. The kid was definitely  _not_ the Batman.

Not yet.

She parked the cycle in the bunker near the wharves, the construction site mostly deserted at the early morning hour. It had to be nearly five. The long, stark corridor of the bunker was bare save for a few cargo crates and the tumbler hulking in the back. She brought herself back up on the lift and made her way down the few blocks between the hotel and the docks, sliding quietly through the empty streets towards the service entrance in the back of the steel high-rise.

They were really exposed like this – the penthouse's only real defense was the degree of control they exerted over the elevators. Decent surveillance, but she knew a technician or two that could override the system easily. The emergency stairwell entrance was outfitted with a lock that wouldn't hold against small scale explosives. Air vents weren't outfitted with the proper locking mechanisms, and big enough for a body to make its way through into the penthouse.

She proved as much to herself by breaking in quietly that way. By the time she was through with this place, it'd be airtight. Selina had a distaste for living in a place where she was most at risk. If the crazy bastard actually knew who the Batman was, it put everyone in the penthouse at risk. She'd rather have a few fail-safes in place before getting cozy.

Alfred was probably still sleeping, but he'd be up in the next hour to start the morning routine. Bruce had said something about visiting Lucius after she'd volunteered to moreover babysit Blake.

Selina found him stretched across the massive, low lying futon in the bedroom. Veined Italian marble made up the floors and walls, paned glass stretching from the floor to the ceiling to meet in a corner. Very modern. Nothing like their warm, quiet home. This was a cold place. A place where Bruce's old self resonated strongly.

The bed was situated on that precipice at an angle, the city stretching out at the foot of it. Gotham seemed to go on forever as she quietly clicked over to the bedside, easing down to situate her weight on the firm lines of his hips showing through the thin sheet.

"Hey," she muttered. He wasn't sleeping – just laying back with his eyes shut firm against the dying nightlights outside the massive windows.

"Mmm. Was waiting up for you."

"Want to talk about your evening?" she teased. Whatever Fox had said had gotten under his skin. She could tell.

Finally, Bruce opened his eyes to gaze up at her. "I can't take him on, Selina."

"I know, Bruce," she said quietly, easing the neoprene of her glove tips in the fringe of hair hanging over his brow. He caught her by the wrist to press his lips to the fabric, and no heat leaked through. Those came off with a quick peel, and she leaned down to catch his mouth desperately.

She didn't pity his broken body and the sense of worthlessness that came with it. He was more of a whole man than any she'd ever met in her life or would meet. But she couldn't make him see what she saw – a vital, clever man who could find an alternative. He had options now that he didn't have nine years ago.

This was the final ghost that needed to be laid to rest.

But he couldn't do this alone, and not even hand to hand.

Her suit was sleek and formfitting, but the strong material bunched in his hands and shredded like tissue. The slow, sweet burn mounted into something more urgent between the two of them – mutual assurances that they'd both turn out whole and healthy by the end of this mess.

Heels dug into the sheets, tearing through the fine cotton with the serrated edge as she locked her knees and pinned down his bared hips – lowering herself onto him with a pained, thin cry that he swallowed. Her mask slipped, falling to the torn sheets as he bunched a long hank of hair to yank her neck back. He exposed it in a tight arc, his lips burning against her pulse point. Selina saw the blinding lights of Gotham as he twisted her bodily, surging and shoving her into the sheets.

She'd bruise with the force of his hands on her hips, but a part of her wished he'd let go as fiercely as he did during these moment of weakness. Instead of hiding it behind that mask.

Blood was spotting the sheets from where her heels had caught onto his bare flesh and nicked him.

Selina fisted the edge of the bed, gritting her teeth through the slamming rhythm as he poured out all the frustration and anger into her. She'd lose it quick like this. Every inch of her burned, and the feeling of Bruce thrusting deep into places no one could ever really touch, both spiritually and physically, had her toes curling in her steel-shod boots. No masks were needed between them. She'd take his secrets. His desperation. Just as he took hers in turn and fucked the tension out of her body.

_For better or for worse._


	14. Hubris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**E** mail could really stack up if a body didn't keep an eye on their inbox.

Selina learned this fact of life the second week into her new job. On top of balancing contract work and consulting with Cadmus, she'd picked up the Wayne Foundation slack. The director of the foundation had taken a fatal hit during the stockholders meeting, and sadly no one could really fill the vacancy.

That's where she and Bruce came in.

He'd gone back in as CEO of Wayne Enterprises for the interim. It still wasn't decided who would actually run the company in the long-term since while Lucius Fox was in recovery – doctors put his physical therapy as his only priority, despite the old inventor's protests. It'd be half a year before he'd be fit to work again, and then with the aid of a brace.

Her fingers were tapping across the screen of her smartphone. The Ladies Society of Gotham wanted to know if she was available for their monthly luncheon. The Beautification Society wanted donations already. A foundation committee member was due for a disciplinary hearing concerning misallocated funds. The pile was stacking up by the hour.

Finally, she culled the numbers down to a single digit and focused on the task at hand.

"Almost there, ma'am," Alfred said from the front of the Rolls Royce. They pulled up the familiar circle drive towards the Elizabethan style manor, and for a moment it felt like coming home. The plaque at the front of the massive doors read the Martha Wayne Home.

She let herself out, her heels crunching on the shell drive to intercept the miffed butler. "Not on my watch, Alfred. No need," she chirped, looping an arm through his as they made their way up the steps. The proprietor of the home, Father Richardson, was there to meet them.

"Welcome, Mrs. Wayne, Mr. Pennyworth," he greeted them warmly. She responded in kind, shaking the offered hand. This was an honest man, at least. One that they could trust to keep the kids first and the money last. She was wary of stewardship concerning most of the trustees – corruption was like a rotting vine that had a stranglehold on most aspects of life. The Wayne Foundation was no exception. Already she'd been finding numbers coming up short in the accounting division.

She hated thieves scoring on  _her_  deal.

Wayne Enterprises and their investigations division was already on it after she'd told Bruce the issue.

"We're housing nearly two hundred of the city's at-risk-youth and orphans, with more on the way," the priest said as he led them on the tour of the renovated mansion. It was now a state-of-the-art home, the old bedrooms converted into dormitories while most of the downstairs served as the recreational rooms and classrooms. The dining room was modified with long tables in neat rows, and staff milled about as they served lunch.

It looked more like a classy boarding school than a city orphanage. Selina was floored.

"What happens when they age out?" Selina asked. The priest shook his head, leading them along the familiar corridors.

"Sadly, there are no alternatives. They simply age out and are made to function on their own wits."

"There's a solution for that. I'll be getting in contact with you about arranging for a program and scholarship fund for the kids that actually want to work for it – those that show the effort. Myself and my husband have agreed to set up a fund to allow any child in this home the chance at post-secondary education, whether they want to go to a trade school or Gotham University to get their bachelors degree."

"Mrs. Wayne, that's terribly generous," the priest said after a moment of shocked silence. Selina smiled, glancing out at the rows of tables and the kids milling about on the lawn. All were clean, healthy, clothed properly, and happy.

She remembered being a child on the street. During winter in the Narrows, you'd be lucky to pick up a scrap from a restaurant dumpster. Even luckier to score ratty, second hand clothes from the donation center. Rarely she'd get a decent coat to keep her warm and shoes with just a few holes. Sometimes you'd get a hot shower at one of the youth halls, but those were few and far between.

Selina realized that she didn't want any other girls on the streets of Gotham, selling their bodies to feed a constantly gnawing hunger in their bellies. Shooting up in seedy motel rooms and getting sucked into the gaping maw of poverty and crime that she'd narrowly avoided due to luck and street smarts.

Pushing away the ugly memories, she looked around at the fresh furnishings and tasteful decor. The contents of the house had been sold at auction, but she was working on getting a few of the pieces back through her many contacts.

Especially Bruce's old bedroom set. She wanted those back for him badly. Familiarity was good, and she wished she had her old bed from her childhood to pass along to any of their children. At that unbidden thought, she paused.

_When would they ever get the chance to have children like this?_

A crowd of kids charged past them towards the dining hall, swiveling around to wave them a hello before bolting in the opposite direction. Father Richardson chuckled, "As you can see, all are thriving."

Alfred and she strode along the garden paths towards the steps leading to the back lawn after the tour had concluded. Father Richardson had a few emergencies to address that always arose when you put two hundred children under one roof. Kids were everywhere, soaking up the sun and playing every kind of sport. Teenage boys were grass-stained and muddy from a game of football near the fountain, raucous and loud in their play.

"I couldn't help but see a bit of the late Martha Wayne back there," Alfred commented as they made their way along the shell path towards a bench.

"Oh?" she said, a smile playing on her lips.

"Indeed. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're revitalizing her dreams for Gotham. But the truth of the matter is that you're doing it more for yourself than to portray to the public the generous, philanthropic lady. Maybe you're mending a place in your soul in the process. If I may be so bold, Missus Selina, you have a large heart behind that sly, cool demeanor," the butler said, his tone crisp but his eyes warm. He dismissed himself to go observe what had become of his kitchens, a small flock of children following in his wake and staring in awe at his pressed suit. The accent delighted them, and Alfred made a big to-do about introducing himself.

The kids went wild, and Alfred had his own fan club as he made his way back up towards the manor with a gaggle of children following.

Selina slumped onto the stone bench, the heat of the midday sun warming her very bones as she sat back. Maybe he was right. She could never key in to the real reason why she didn't steal from everyone, instead selecting only the rich. Maybe she did have a moral compass back then. A real opportunist would've taken from anyone, regardless of how much or how little they had.

Then why did she get so selective in picking out targets? Usually it was the overblown, too-rich sorts who wouldn't miss a few million here and there. Selina pursed her lips and muddled on a few more things this place had brought to the forefront of her mind.

She had a soft spot for kids. Spanning back to the time in her youth when she'd shepherd around a flock of street urchins to a decent home or orphanage that wasn't too crummy. Always did look out for the younger groups, up to the time where she'd kept an eye out for the kids in her neighborhood during the occupation – one kid in particular catching her attention. The one that had stolen a measly apple to make it by and live through the hunger.

_Never steal from someone you can't outrun._

Selina had learned that the hard way during a hard winter in the Narrows when she was fifteen, and still bore the scars of the encounter. She'd been feeding on scraps for weeks, and every time she curled her emaciated body against a dumpster to get out of the snow a fear of death crept up on her. She was so weak from hunger that she was frightened she wouldn't have the strength to wake up to the cold and gnawing pain in her stomach.

Maybe she'd slip away in her sleep and the sanitation department would find her frozen, small corpse after the snow had sluiced off of it in the spring. So she broke into a small eatery and gorged herself on the supplies, but the proprietor had caught her and beat her bloody for her efforts. Selina had managed to make it out alive, but with a shattered collarbone and cracked jaw.

She'd nearly starved the next month and succumbed to sepsis before a small parish priest had taken her into the hospital and paid for her medical expenses. Scars ran deeper than the physical sense. When she made it big later in life on heists, she'd stock her fridge full every week and just stand in front of the open door to stare at the food and assure herself it was all there. That this wasn't some lucid dream where she'd wake up to the cold and hunger once more.

Selina looked across the field and realized that these kids had a better shot. That self-centered ideology that had saved her life early on wasn't necessary to her survival anymore. She could give back, now. Save others from the life she was forced into. Save them from the hunger – the pain.

Bruce maybe had an inkling of what she felt, but it was hard to tell when your husband came from such privilege. He'd learned later on in life the meaning of hunger and ongoing physical pain. Selina was barely ten when she was a thin little skeleton in the Narrows, barely skirting prostitution, drugs, and hunger.

 _Speak of the devil_ , she thought as her Wayne Enterprises email went chiming on her phone. Bruce was no doubt at his desk at the Wayne Enterprises building, or in another board meeting. They were pooling candidates from other companies to fill the vacancies, and he was busy from dawn 'til dusk. She was still enjoying the air out on the back lawn, watching a group of young girls gamboling around the green in a game of field hockey. They all looked happy – healthy. More than she did at their age.

_To: SWayne_

_From: BWayne_

_I'm thinking of a number between one and ten – guess right and we skip the Mayoral Inauguration ball._

Selina smirked, typing back a response.

_To: BWayne_

_From: SWayne_

_I'm adaptable. I can deal with a few a few blue hairs and snotty celebrities. Unless you want to spend the night in again…maybe break in my Saleen. The kitchen counter got broken in pretty thoroughly last night._

Her phone pinged off a moment later. He was really glued to that computer.

_To: SWayne_

_From: BWayne_

_Tempting, but I'm rain checking that. Want to see if you can get all worked up around the social hags – maybe not steal my Lambo this time._

_PS. I like what you're wearing._

Selina furrowed her brow, but she caught sight of a security camera mounted above a buttress on the exterior of the mansion. It was swiveling on its pivot, following her every move.

Bruce really was either the most on-the-ball observer or borderline paranoid. He'd kept either Alfred or a security detail near her during the last week back in Gotham. It was getting old. She flicked up her middle finger at the camera, smiling blithely before tucking it away. The kids didn't need to be picking up bad habits from her. On cue, her phone pinged with another email.

_To: SWayne_

_From: BWayne_

_I saw that, young lady._

Just then, the field hockey ball came whizzing towards her. She managed to duck, but the group of preteens that stopped short of her was apologizing profusely for their misplaced shot.

"Sorry, so sorry, Mrs. Wayne!" said a skinny, wide eyed girl on the tall side. Her hair was frizzled and black, falling around her shoulders while her knees sported more than a few scrapes. Selina felt a twinge – she looked a lot like Maggie did at that age.

"That's quite the arm," she said, her tone smooth and even. A smile tugged up her mouth, and she discarded her wide brimmed designer hat and kicked off the heels. Her hose would be torn to shreds, but she shucked off her blazer and gave a mental  _fuck it_ towards the state of her clothes.

"Got room for one more?" she asked the gaggle of orphans.

The group of girls stared bug-eyed before one found her voice, "Sure!" All the noise and jostling followed, Selina now firmly inducted into the game as she was handed a rickety hockey stick.

A game of epic proportions followed, and her team managed the winning goal after the leggy, tall girl named Marcie slammed the ball into the netting. Selina was muddy and grassy, hooting and hollering with both teams as they slammed into one big press to cheer and trash talk. The girls asked for a photograph, and Alfred took the shoot with her smartphone after returning from the kitchen inspection.

She'd get that framed for her new desk.

Promises were made for more visits, and each girl came up to embrace her and thank her timidly. Selina had to swallow emotions down before laughing and clasping each girl in a tight hug.

All the kids came to see her off once she'd stuck her raggedy stocking-clad feet back into her heels and went back up to the Rolls Royce. Father Richardson shook her hand once more, and Alfred drove them off. Selina waved through the back window at the rapidly shrinking group of kids, a warm feeling she'd never quite experienced tingling over her mind.

They were back in the penthouse at a quarter to seven, and she was scrambling to get ready. A light, natural application of makeup was slapped on with just a touch of kohl to her eyelids, and a dusky silver eyeshadow added to make her eyes pop. She put on her stark scarlet lipstick for courage.

An assistant from the boutique had to sew her into the dress last minute. It was custom fitted, and in the deepest shade of royal purple that made her eyes sore from staring at the silky fabric. A single strap held the bodice up on her thin shoulder, the body of the dress hugging her form while many panels of darker silk flared out from the side into a draping train. Her hair was glossed and pulled back into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck, a few tendrils loose to frame her face.

She waved off Alfred's offer to drive her to the gala, instead revving her engine as she peeled out of the parking garage in her Saleen. Bruce helped her out at the front, already impeccable in the dark three-piece suit by Armani. They looked very striking, and she couldn't help but puff up a bit as the paparazzi and socialites gawked rudely as Bruce brought her in on his arm.

Gotham City Hall had a lot of memories stored away for the both of them. The ionic columns at the front were festooned with campaign banners and the wide stone steps decked out in rolls of red carpet. Lights lit up the front and throngs of people mingled. Not a bit resembling the shelled out building where a full-scale war had occurred last winter.

The particular wall she'd put Bane through was fully repaired, she noted. Still, Selina squinted and noticed with satisfaction that a few cracks were still evident.

Gordon was standing near the mayor in a tux with a young lady on his arm, but Selina didn't get a proper look. The crowd closed in on them, and Bruce guided them effortlessly through the gauntlet of socialites and reporters, politicians and celebrities. The ballroom in city hall was truly massive, even moreso than the two in the penthouse. There were close to a thousand people present in the room, all in black tie. The heat was far from oppressive, and the far wall held a gallery of doors opened onto a terrace that overlooked the public gardens.

Finally, they were on the fringe of the eddying tide of human bodies. Bruce turned to catch her face in his hands.

"You look – what's a word?" Bruce wondered, his stare seeming to peel off the layers of cloth 'til she was warm and flushed in the cheeks. Bruce had a bad habit of disarming her.

"Don't look at me. You're the romantic out of the two of us," she purred, tugging him towards the cleared space of marble flooring where couples were dancing to the grand, swelling music from the live band. She spotted the new mayor with his wife, and both of them waved a greeting especially at her and Bruce. Selina plastered a congenial smile on her face and waved back with her husband before guiding him into the steps. He, of course, took the lead effortlessly.

"I've got it. It's a poem, though. Want to hear me wax and wane?" Bruce gave her a boyish grin, spinning her in a dip over his knee before bringing her back up to waltz their way through the slow steps. The big band blaring out the jazzy tunes was exceptional, and Selina felt like she was gliding on air. She'd argue about his overprotective streak and unnecessary surveillance at home. For now, she wanted to soak up the moment and the glamor surrounding her, and the warmth of Bruce's arms tight around her body.

"Let me guess. Tennyson?"

"Of course not! Princeton's curriculum is more Byron-centric."

"My bad. We plebeians at Gotham University didn't get such a thorough coaching in the British classics like you rich types," she drawled, and his eyes lit up in mirth.

"'She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright meets in her aspect and her eyes; thus mellow'd to that tender light which Heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impair'd the nameless grace. Which waves in every raven tress or softly lightens o'er her face, where thoughts serenely sweet express how pure, how dear their dwelling-place.'"

"Definitely Byron," she smirked, her fingers sneaking in a pinch on the tight muscles of his rear. That suit really did fit him in all the right places. "Though I think we've covered that my thoughts don't run the gamut of 'pure', wouldn't you agree?"

"Byron would definitely have to rephrase that poem if you were the woman in mind," he admitted, but his eyes still held that glimmer of amusement. A short distance was closed, and her husband's mouth was firm and warm against her colored lips. Right in front of every social hag in Gotham. Cameras were wildly clicking, and Selina responded enthusiastically before drawing them both back at arm's length.

"Easy, tiger. We'll give the older ones heart attacks," she chided, her mouth furling into a red smile. His eyes darkened, and her pulse hiked up ever so slightly.

"Let's call it the prelude to christening your sports car," he husked in her ear, his hands dropping a tad bit too low on her hips. Selina was utterly delighted at the shocked faces staring back at her over Bruce's shoulder, and she soaked up the glory in the jealous looks some of the younger girls were shooting her way.

"I think we'll have some trouble getting the dents out of the hood if we go the particular route I'm thinking of," she muttered aloud. A passing couple whirling by them in the dance did a double take at her comment, thoroughly scandalized.

"We'll get to that. Start small. With you over the steering wheel. That leather doesn't stain, does it?"

"We'll see," she sing-songed. Selina willed time to fly, but it was at a slow crawl. They were led like the usual dog and pony show through the massed groups to make introductions and reintroductions in Bruce's case, everyone fawning over their looks or their wealth. It was tedious.

The blonde, older Stepford wife clone that headed up the Gotham Ladies Society sniffed them out early on.

"Mrs. Wayne! I had the honor of working with Bruce's mother, and the society was wondering if you would be gracious enough to pay us a visit! You've received my email about our luncheon coming up? My, it will be just like the old days to have another Wayne lady in the fold!"

"Of course," Selina managed, taken aback a little by the woman's proximity. She was  _right_ up in her face, and the scent of gardenias was as cloying as the smell of a funeral parlor.

Bruce was her dark knight in shining armor, as usual, and smoothly inserted himself in the conversation.

"I believe Selina was hoping to focus more time on the Wayne Foundation for the time being – but I believe there needs to be a donation made to the lovely ladies of your society. Here's my card, just call my personal assistant and we'll set up an appointment to discuss it. Sound good?"

The woman nearly swooned, and she was hustled off by her frail looking husband who had one foot in the grave. He kept shooting apologetic looks at the both of them, and Selina plastered another smile onto her face.

"I am not joining their fucking sewing circle," she gritted out under her breath. Bruce chuckled, tugging her into a relatively less populated part of the ballroom near a potted plant and column. They held court there for the next ten minutes, and finally Gordon ambled over with a gin and tonic in hand. The young lady was gone from his arm.

"You two look like you're enjoying the crowd-" he was cut off as the band went suddenly silent in the middle of a very jiving number. It had all three of them curious, and they turned to look at the front of the marbled, long room.

Selina got the clue quickly, and she felt the blood rush out of her face.

"Goooood even-ing, ladies and gentlemen!" called a raspy, pitched voice from the entrance.

"I thought he wouldn't be this insane. There's at least two squads of police parked outside and security was airtight," she wondered aloud, moving subtly closer to Bruce as he tensed. Gordon had turned white, and his eyes were searching the crowd. Probably for the younger woman that had been present with him.

Selina turned her eyes to the sprawling staircase and the figure standing there, flanked with his masked cohorts and sporting a Smith & Wesson M76. The serious, spray fire type – a submachine gun that she didn't want to get on the business end of.

It was him – the purple suit back in place with the oily greasepaint smeared across the scared cheeks and twisted mouth. His eyes seemed to burn through the entire room, the black grease around them giving him a hollow look. The entire ballroom dissolved into a state of screaming panic, many running for the exits only to be shot and shoved back by an oncoming tide of men in masks holding assault rifles.

"Here we go again," Bruce gritted out. Selina thanked whatever higher power had compelled her to strap her Walther P99 on the inside of her thigh.

This was going to get messy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selina's Versace gown this chapter – type in Tinyurl then the dot and com, then hit the slash and type SelinaVersace. Tell me what you think.
> 
> Tinyurl dot com forward slash SelinaVersace
> 
> Byron's poem "She walks in beauty, like the night" belongs to the respective owners.


	15. Adrenaline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**B** arbara wasn't quite sure how she'd gotten separated from her father. Panic was running rampant all over the ballroom, and she had to press close to a wall to get out of the mesh of bodies. It could get ugly quick, and skittish humans were prone to trampling over the smaller humans.

She qualified.

Her small Glock was safely tucked into her clutch, but she second guessed on pulling it out just yet.

There had to be at least twenty police cruisers around this place. At least when she walked in she'd seen them – how the hell did this group barge in unchallenged? The Joker wasn't exactly a forgettable face. He was as menacing as she remembered from all the news footage and her father's stories imparted to her when she got a bit older to really hear them in all their graphic glory.

And he was advancing on the Waynes with the submachine gun raised, his mouth twitching like he the only guy cluing in on some funny joke. The crowds of Gotham well-to-dos parted like the fucking Red Sea for him.

 _Now isn't the time to be the big hero, Babs_ , a part of her brain was screaming at her. She reached into her clutch, raised the gun and squeezed the trigger anyways.

Big hit. In the shoulder. Nothing fatal, but it  _really_ was an attention getter.

He turned on her, and the shot didn't seem to faze him physically. That's when she saw Selina Wayne duck down, reaching up her skirt to pull out her own handgun. She felt an inkling of respect for the woman.

Her shot landed solidly on the hip, her aim off from the roar of fear and the jostling shoves. Police were starting to grapple in, shooting at the masked assailants when they parsed them out from the actual partygoers. Elsewise it was a wrestling match to get them out of the throng and keep the people from any stray bullets.

The Joker wasn't pleased, her snarled something at the Waynes and her father that she couldn't make out. No one was paying enough attention – they were too focused on getting the hell out of Dodge.

Vanished like smoke when she cared to look again, and Bruce Wayne had his wife by the arms. Holding her back – she was furious, her knuckles white as she clutched the butt of the gun in her hand. Her father was white as a sheet.

When the place was cleared out and the investigations started up, no one could really find out the who, what, when, where and why of how he'd gotten through security with his goons. Someone was screaming about an inside job. Barbara had to agree.

"Nice work," said Selina Wayne in her ear, startling her out of her brainy wanderings. Barbara was safely ensconced in her father's unmarked department car in front of the crowded steps of the building, and the woman had quietly slipped over to check in on her. She was swaddled in an oversized men's jacket, probably her husband's. Looked worn out.

"No problem. Gotta keep things interesting, right?" she grinned weakly, and Selina Wayne actually looked  _amused_  at the comment. Definitely not a socialite. This woman was tough as nails. They parted after her husband came to cart her back to their car, and Selina shot her a smile over her shoulder as the two left.

Dad bitched at her like he'd never bitched before. Just a solid half hour of bitching from the Gotham City Hall to his small walkup uptown. He'd sold the house after the divorce, and he practically lived at the office. She'd had to liven up the place up with a plant and some air freshener when she moved in from Ohio at the beginning of the summer. Now it was homey.

She took the tongue lashing in stride, but wouldn't give up her Glock for the life of her.

"Damnit, Barbara, you're just like your mother when you get like this," he'd said wearily at the kitchen table. His tie was unraveled, and his tux coat was slung over the back of the chair like some skinned animal pelt. Jim Gordon hated big social functions, and this night didn't do wonders for his lack of enthusiasm towards them.

"Probably why you named me after her," she muttered as she made her way into the spare bedroom she'd been sleeping in. Her stuff was all there, boxed up and ready for the apartment she'd scored on campus for the fall. She started shucking off the layers of silk eveningwear and wrenching the bobby pins out of her hair. Her skull was aching from having it glued and wrenched into a coif on top of her poor head.

Barbara had done some overhaul research on Selina Wayne in the week leading up to the gala. Had hoped to actually have a conversation with her. She was one tall drink of water, but not even birth records existed. Or a marriage certificate for the Waynes. Nothing on the regular internet skimming, so she got into her father's criminal database access codes and checked up her record. Nothing. Like everything had been scrubbed clean.

She'd more or less  _borrowed_ some Kevlar from the precinct when her father wasn't looking. It was the thin new prototype, so it didn't add but an inch to the bulk of her racing jacket underneath. She didn't go into these things unprepared, so she suited up and kept a spare switchblade in the top of her boot. Dad was sound asleep by the time she snuck out at two in the morning, exhausted from the night's craziness. Work was coming down hard on him over the Joker breakout. And now this had gone down. He'd be buried in paperwork come morning if he wasn't resuming the manhunt for the great white clown.

_Man the fucking harpoons._

Barbara would admit that he'd been in some hot water over Bane's big reveal on GCN with dad's supposed confession. But like all villains in Gotham, what he said was dismissed as a falsehood or conjecture, and the higher-ups turned a deaf ear to Jim Gordon's insistence that the words were entirely true.

In any case, Gotham gave him the slide on the eight year lie he'd been living. They seriously had no alternative for a decent replacement, considering the occupation.

But Barbara remembered that night. She'd been cowering against her mother in fear, her face hidden in the warmth of her body while Harvey Dent railed and screamed at her father about his responsibility in Rachel Dawes' death, clutching Jim with a revolver to his small head.

That's when he came in – the Batman. He'd saved Jim, and her father. What good guys were supposed to do, right?

Her family had to be the secret keepers over the next decade concerning the truth of the matter. Dad and mom had fought, and things took their natural course. The divorce didn't shock her, and she didn't put up much of a fight for his sake over where she and Jim needed to live. Mom took them back to Ohio, and after her sophomore year at the University of Miami she'd transferred her credits to Gotham University.

Mom didn't quite like the idea. She hated the very mention of the city. Fought over the phone with dad for a solid week until she was ready to let Barbara go, and even then she was cold and recalcitrant. Barbara knew she was just scared. The older woman had barely slept through the long months of occupation, glued to the television for a word about her ex-husband's fate. Divorce may have broken them up, but they were all still family. And a part of mom still loved her father, no matter the conflict.

She kept the dark helmet and tinted visor down over her face when she pulled up to the group milling under the tracks and rundown row houses in the Narrows. Graffiti was everywhere, and rap was thrumming out of some parked car's stereo system out of the trunk. It reeked of weed and cheap liquor. Barbara dismounted and wheeled her bike towards a tall black man slouched against the best looking car in the bunch. He was busy counting out bills on the glossy hood when he saw her coming. She killed her engine.

"Yo, Red," Dreads called her over. "You in?"

"You know it," she muttered, flicking out a few twenties for the buy in price. He tucked them away in his ratty vest and had one of his girls let out a shrill whistle. Five racers in total, and a decent crowd of a hundred thronged in the dirty street to watch the race.

Her sleek little red number was a Yamaha YZF-R1. Affordable for an eighteen year old and her meager budget when she'd begged it as her graduation gift from her mother. And it was a hand-me-down from a high school buddy she'd bought it off. Two years later and it ran like a dream.

"Basic setup! Once around these four blocks, first across the line wins all."

The race started at the sound of Dreads' Uzi spraying a round of shots into the air. They all gunned off, and Barbara caught sight of a rider on a seriously rigged out piece of machinery – top of the line stuff. Some weird symbol was splashed across his visor in blue – a bird?

In any case, he seemed to be her only competition. They wove through the streets and clipped sharply around the turns at scary speeds. She had to lean into the force of the gravity, swinging around a lamppost in the lead. Then some idiot on a shitty, souped up Kawasaki had to ruin it. He was just out to crush skulls, slamming the chassis of his bike into other riders until one actually got dismounted on a stretch of road. It didn't end pretty, but at least he was in jeans, helmet, and a racing jacket. His skin wouldn't be _completely_ torn off on the asphalt, and his brain would still function.

The guy on the pricey bike blocked for her on the final turn when the Kawasaki reared up onto her tailpipe, trying to fishtail her off into a retaining wall. She let out a string of curses, and her savior bumped the guy off enough to give her room to really rev the throttle and give her bike room to bolt. It crossed the line more than a few lengths ahead of the remaining four racers.

What was left of the crowd was screeching in approval. They liked a little friendly rivalry, especially when the paramedics or coroner might be needed afterwards. It made things interesting. Barbara slung her booted foot down to walk her bike over towards Dreads, receiving claps on the padded shoulders and overall loud approval.

Some fresh punk with a silver mohawk who'd rode the modified Kawasaki was bitching loudly at Dreads about the outcome of the race before she got there, and Barbara saw a bit of metal flash out when the disgruntled racer pulled a knife out on the bookie.

Dreads wasn't arguing with the guy sporting a switchblade. He tossed the wad of cash at the guy and shrugged towards Barbara. "Sorry, Red."

She was fuming, and without much consideration for life or limb she came up behind the thief and brought her fist into the back of his skull with a solid crack. His doughy, flabby form slumped at the force, but he bounced right back up to swing a fist at her. She ducked, smirking as she saw the blade flick out to try and wedge in her ribs. It simply glanced off the Kevlar once it dug into the leather of her jacket, and his stupid expression got even  _stupider_ in confusion.

Barbara wrenched the switchblade out of his slack grip and sent it spinning towards the brick wall. It embedded in the soft mortar with a sharp clink, and everyone backed off a few paces with wide eyes.

"I'm done talking about it. Now either you hand over the money like you've got a pair or pull out like the weak bitch you are," she spit out. The guy with the mohawk turned purple in the face, reeling back a fist.

Now it was interesting.

A hand seemed to snatch the fist coming towards her out of the air, despite her readiness. She could have ducked his slug-paced shots easy. The piss-and-vinegar biker was upended on his leathery ass in the dirt before she could blink, howling and clutching his wrist. Bent at an awkward angle, and possibly broken.

_Serves him right._

"Ease up, man. Lady said she was done, and she beat you fair and square. Pay up," spoke an even, calm voice. It was the guy that had blocked for her on that turn and came in third for the trouble. Looked like he had a bit of money considering the sleek black MV Agusta FCC with the blue accents he charged in on. Had to be the most exclusive bike on the market, now that she thought about it. Barbara felt it was love at first sight with that beast of a motorcycle.

The guy himself was cute – in that rugged, boyish sort of way. Clean shave and swarthy skin, warm eyes. She liked what she saw. Guy had an honest face. Jeans, boots, dark tee and a leather racing jacket.

His helmet in the crook of his arm had the visor down and an interesting design was layered into the black matte. An ambiguous shape of a bird of prey – spreading out its wings on the helmet. Stark, dark blue.

The biker fished out his billfold and threw it at her feet. An even three hundred dollars that she was more than happy to pick up and dust off. His posse made their hasty retreat with him, and order was restored to this sleazy section of the Narrows. Dreads was raking in bets from the race and crowing about how he'd be rich before the night was up.

She wheeled her bike off of its side and set her ass against it after kicking out the stand, turning to face her proverbial knight in shining leather.

"I owe you one. He'd have really slugged me one. He's a sore loser," she grumbled, wishing she'd brought her gun out of the carrier bag on the bike. She was getting sloppy and stupid. Dad taught her better. She felt a bit sheepish she was here in the first place. Was this how she repaid him for letting her crash in his place before the term started?

"John," he said as his hand extended. Barbara stared bug-eyed at it before remembering her manners. You forgot how to be a functional human being with manners in the Narrows, even for the brief spells she spent in the rundown sections of Gotham.

"Barbara," she replied, shaking the offered hand. Rough and calloused, textured with a lot of hard work put into it. What she felt besides the fingerless gloves, of course.

"Sort of run of the mill name – John. You come to the races often?" Her head tilted, and she saw his mouth twitch a little at the gesture.

"Only when I'm scraping around for a little information. Didn't know they let uptown girls slum it this far into the Narrows," he said, his eyes seeming to size up her attire and bike critically. She wasn't exactly slum material, she liked to think.

"Well, you know. Girl has got to cut loose sometime."

"Never seen a girl qualify street racing as a stress reliever. That's an eclectic taste you have."

"I'm not the average Gotham girl, you could say."

"GCU?" he asked, looking pointedly at the black and yellow symbol stretched over her tee. Her racing jacket was just a bit unzipped and she glanced down in surprise.

"Gotham Knights," she grinned. "Starting my first semester there this fall."

"Really? I'm alumni," he slouched, seeming to really loosen up a bit.

"Sounds like you can show me around."

"What year you in?"

"Rising senior. Got a lot of credits in during high school, so I'm graduating early."

"Got ourselves an intellectual uptown girl," John smirked, flicking a lock of hair out of her eyes.

"Want a cut of the winnings or are you just fucking with me?" she snapped, giving him a shove to the shoulder. Barbara was touchy about her personal space. This slick shot needed some boundary reminders. His hands came up defensively, and a laugh spilled out.

"Wow, tiger, easy – not trying to talk you up for the money. You don't owe me a thing. Maybe a rematch – just you and me. One on one."

"I can deal with that," she managed grudgingly after a minute. She softened up her look and quirked her lips in a smile. He really was a nice guy; she had to give him that credit.

"Want to start that up now and grab a coffee uptown?" she said after considering her options for a moment. To her disappointment, he shook his head.

"Nah – got something I gotta take care of before turning in. Catch you later?"

"Sure thing. See you next race?"

"Definitely," he grinned, backing up and never breaking eye contact until he really needed to focus on moving out of the alley. He had this lean, smooth range of movement that made Barbara envious. This guy was more comfortable in his own skin than she was in hers.

But dawn's sleepy fingers of light were starting to creep over the city. She had to get back in bed and prep for another round of questioning from her father about 'how stupid can you get' concerning her blazing guns routine at the gala. She'd drawn the fire away from harmless citizens and the bad guy made the retreat, didn't he? Wasn't good enough for Jim Gordon – he was calling it an 'unnecessary risk' to her life that she'd brought on herself.

Sue her. She was young. Young, modern women were the nominal fuck ups of the twenty-first century. She had the right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely Emma Stone will be the woman portraying Barbara Gordon in this work of fiction. As for Harley Quinn, Brittany Murphy is the actress used to portray!


	16. Variable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**B** ruce, despite having the equivalent of stripped screws for joints, was still spry enough to knock his ass flat on the mat every time they sparred. But he was getting quicker, stronger. He rolled out of his cot in the cave every morning to do his reps, and then hit the bars to strain and stretch his body in all those impossible moves Bruce was making him learn.

It was tough. Breaking him down to build him back up. But the old Bat was really the only person qualified to pass on this knowledge. It was necessary knowledge.

John had been in a state of conflict the day the floor had risen under his feet from the cave, raising him up towards Bruce's sanctuary to assume the new identity.

There needed to always  _be_ a Batman in Gotham. He'd realized that the day Bruce had suited back up and carried the bomb out into the bay. Self-sacrifice. Someone that would constantly keep the city's interest before his own life – that was what Gotham needed.

He didn't have a life beyond his work before, so no trouble there. He was an orphan, and married to the job. But the straight and narrow path of the law wasn't going to get Gotham anywhere in the days to come. Crime was still surging in the poorer parts of the city, and though the force was taking heart from the example Gotham P.D had set that final day of the occupation, corruption rotted out the infrastructure of the city government. Politics were the death of justice, and suddenly a lot of guys denied paroles during to the Dent Act were confirmed as rehabilitated.

Blake knew it was a different setup.

These were guys born in to the life – it was all they knew. They'd simply start the cycle over once they were back on the street.

That's where Bruce's creeds got tangled up with  _his_ ideas. A bullet in the head to most of these mob bosses and half-baked crooks would solve a lot of problems. But Bruce had a different opinion after he voiced as much to him. They'd wrapped up another kickboxing session, and John was winding the tape off his gloves to free his aching fingers. He'd be black and blue come morning, but like all pain it was just in the mind.  _Mind over matter._

"Death only generates more death. If you gun down the Joker, where does that end? The next two-bit thief that robs the convenience store at gunpoint? It's a ripple effect, when you become the executioner. You tread that line when you consider putting a bullet in his head. The only difference between us and him is that we think there's a justifiable reason for killing them."

"Do you ever consider the lives you'd be saving if you just killed him eight years ago?" Blake asked.

"I did," he said, glancing off into the dark recess overhead. The bats were dead asleep in the daylight hours, and the soft chitters carried down to the two of them. "I realized that the more I thought of it, the more I realized that equating saving one innocent life by killing him was an absolute exchange – it all became clear. It'd apply to all the mob bosses and armed robbers that might gun down an innocent if I were to let them live. Then there would be no minimum line. Every drunk driver or jittery kid robbing a home would have to die. The murder of anyone would become justifiable. Once that precept gets in your head, your mind can find any justifiable reason why that person should die to save the potential lives that would be affected by them living."

"That's the logical progression of it all – when one man puts himself above the accountability and authority of the law. You become the judge, the jury, and the executioner in your own mind – take away the power of the system by leaving the system entirely out of it," Bruce finished, tugging on his jacket and packing away the staves they'd been sparring with beforehand.

"What if the system can never work the way we want it, where the Joker ends up confined for life? You saw how that went. The unexpected variable came in and broke him out, and now his death count is up to thirty people with who knows how many more on the way – when does it become too much, and the quantifiable gain you get out of killing the bastard is the greater good?"

"It's the lesser of two evils, John. And it goes back to the mathematical principle that you eliminate your minimum. If the Joker is one mad dog killing scores of people that makes one innocent life you save by killing another murderer justifiable in measure. Is the life of one person less than the lives of ten? It's the precipice you've got to stand on, from now on. To not kill. If you do, you're no better than what you're fighting against. If anything, you're worse – you're a justified executioner hiding behind a mask, taking life into your own hands. We can't play god out there, Blake."

It gave him a lot to think about.

Bruce's phone was going off while he was making him down some of that nasty grass drink – wheat juice and some protein supplements blended it. It had an aftertaste that made him want to scrape his tongue clean and gargle a whole bottle of mouthwash. But it gave him a measure of energy during the night, so he bit the proverbial bullet and downed it all.

"Selina?" he asked. Bruce nodded, looking a bit distracted by whatever she'd sent.

"She's pissed lately. About what the Joker said, and about the security detail. It's necessary, but  _she_ doesn't seem to get that. Keeps giving them the slip and going out on her own in the city."

"Sounds sorta spirited. Might want to give her the space – she can handle herself, you know."

Bruce shot him a look that warned him to mind his own wife, if he had one. So John shut up and let the old Batman tap out a response to the cat burglar.

_Still can't believe they hit it off like that. You'd think he'd put her BACK in jail. Guess her saving grace was going on the straight and narrow when it counted._

His tracer he'd slipped onto Barbara Gordon's person the other night gave a beep from the control console. She was on the move again – slumming it and tracking down half-assed leads in the Narrows over where the Joker was hiding, if he was looking for a crew. Apparently detective work ran in the blood with the Gordons.

He'd figured out it was Gordon's kid after staking out his walkup for a night. She came and went at odd hours, getting into scraps and more street races to give off the illusion she was just another punk kid with something to prove. Nice body – built up tight and small in a curvy figure with reddish, long hair and pale skin. Cute face. Not a groundbreaking beauty, but she had her charm. And she could definitely beat a trail with that bike. Decent street fighter – she'd made the Gotham University gymnastics squad after her time at the University of Miami and was about to get drafted for the nationals team.

He spent the morning after their little race-off undercover in the usual slummy bistros the mob bosses congregated in. They were pretty jumpy about having the Joker around – still hurting from losing that wad of cash on his loose cannon chaos. No lead there. What was left of the Falcone crime family wanted him dead, and would pay generously to the lucky bastard who nabbed the clown.

The leads found in his cell were vague hints of old hideouts. Dates, addresses. One an abandoned warehouse, the other a rundown meth lab in the Narrows. He wrote everything in a stilted, mad hand that jumped over the page sporadically. No real written train of thought. Just fragments.

_Bat bat bat – boom! Nothing to hide – nowhere to go – it's like gravity – all it needs is a little PUSH –_

_Helllloooo beautiful…_

Just dirty pages of that disconnected drivel. It was maddening. He'd cross-referenced it all with the databases and came up with nothing. Bruce had said the last bits were actual words the Joker had spoken to him, but didn't see their connection.

Blake had a hunch they were still relevant.

"John! Got something for you," he called. "Gift from Lucius before they cleared out applied sciences."

The aluminum casing he'd brought in was lying on the table in the small living quarters Bruce had carved into the cave. It had all the modern functions – bathroom, kitchen, and a cot in the corner. Very Spartan, and John found himself sleeping in his apartment less and less.

Bruce popped it open, and inside was the veritable goldmine of gadgets. Ontop of a redone Kevlar suit.

The old Fox had wrought his helmet's emblem over the chest where the steel bat should've spread out – instead it was the shape of a bird of prey in blue. Hints of the color blended into the metal added into the Kevlar, and the suit covered him from the neck down. Easy to move in, but it'd stop a bullet and a knife when the situation called for it.

He'd even added in the half-mask in black with the steel clasps and adhesive. Someone would literally have to carve it off his face without the solvent there to unglue the solution. The thought made him grimace.

_Still wearing black and blue, even out of the force._

He'd put his foot down on the idea of a cape. Could get caught in something, and he'd look fucking ridiculous running around in it. Maybe he could figure out how to glide in something less showy.

"You've got your own symbol now – might get named something interesting when the public really picks up on your movements," Bruce grinned, turning to leave as John was absorbed in the sharp little steel cuttings shaped into the same angular bird emblem. Had his own Batarangs, now.

"What  _did_ the Joker say to get her so worked up?" John wondered aloud. He'd gotten the video feed of that night on file this morning and had seen Selina flare up, but he couldn't get the audio or sync her lips to the right words. Bruce halted on his way out – they'd installed a new side entrance in the limestone bedrock towards the woods. It was code locked, barred and hidden behind a screen of thick foliage. Was better than grappling in every time he needed to grab groceries.

Bruce's face had this solemn freeze to it, and Blake knew that expression. Reliving the nightmare.

The truth of what the Joker had said wasn't far from what Blake had imagined he would say. The clown had a way of getting under people's skins, and these words stung.

The billionaire who used to have nothing to lose croaked, "He said I'd have to dig a spot next to Rachel Dawes' grave for her to match the set. Then he  _laughed_."


	17. Friction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**H** is mother had imparted a bit of wisdom to him before her death.

_In the early years, you fight because you don't understand one another. In the later years, you fight because you do._

Thomas Wayne had made it an easy marriage for Martha Kane, and when she'd taken his name it all smoothed out even more between them. He'd been the philandering playboy coasting through medical school and she'd been the impoverished lady from one of the former wealthy families. It was said that the Kane's owned the half of Gotham the Wayne's didn't possess, but that all went south after a few mob bosses had squandered the fortune.

The Kanes joined the casualty list of those that had gotten too deep in with the rising crime families in the latter half of the twentieth century, and the name slipped into obscurity until a young Martha Kane sponsored a free clinic in the slums of Gotham. She ran it day to day, sunup to sundown. No one was turned away.

One day the same mob boss, Judson Pierce, had squeezed in on Bruce's mother. He tried to buy out the clinic as he was taking over the entire city block it was located on, but Martha Kane stonewalled him. Even tried to buy her out, but Martha turned around and filed his buyout as a donation to keep the clinic running. He was furious, and decided to take up a more aggressive approach.

Bruce was sketchy on the details as Alfred told him, but the first meeting between his parents involved his father pretty drunk and vomiting onto his mother's shoes. She'd thought him the biggest ass on the planet, and had gathered up her dignity and continued her work at the clinic. One day Alfred had driven Thomas Wayne to the clinic to apologize again, and that was the same day Pierce's hitmen showed up. A brief scuffle ensued, and Alfred had pinned down the guys in seconds.

His mother's good friend that had co-run the clinic with her, Doctor Leslie Thompkins, had taken a hit from the gunman and needed more than a few weeks of recuperation. That was when his father had stepped in and offered his services until Doctor Thompkins would be able to pick up the slack once more. Martha agreed, graciously, patching things up between her and Thomas. The rest was history.

Selina was pacing the floor like some caged animal – she'd been in this state since the Joker had spat out his promise and laughed his way out. The past week had been hell. They'd fought, they'd argued. To the point where he kicked himself to the couch while she sat up late in the bedroom fuming. Alfred found an excuse to get out during the really critical hours to give them privacy. He must've sensed the rising tension – the penthouse was empty save for the security detail stationed in the common area and Selina when he stepped off the lift. He dismissed them, and went to find her in the office. He was fresh from another training session with Blake, and she was ready to gear up the tirade again. She'd been ready to put a bullet through the Joker's skull – no questions asked. But Bruce had held her back.

"You're capable of disarming and apprehending him, Selina. Don't lie. Simply killing him isn't going to fix anything – it's just going to leave a vacuum for some other psychopath to fill."

"I don't agree with your philosophy – at least respect my decision to abide by mine. The first chance  _I_ get, he's dead."

"I can't let you do that, Selina. Not unless it's your only option out of a bad situation where he has you cornered. You can't sink down to his level and hunt him down like some animal-" she let out a bark of laughter, cutting him off.

"You think he doesn't know that? You holding your code to bind  _me_? He knows exactly what's going on between you and me over all of this, and he loves it. Because you won't compromise and let me do the right thing."

"Don't you understand? You're the one thing he thinks is holding me back from going back to that life – the one factor that was different. He'll kill you the first chance he gets just to draw me out and start this all over again, to put me back in the part he wants me to play in this twisted fucking game of his," he shouted. Selina wasn't cowed. She reared up on her heels and leveled her face eyelevel with him.

"I can handle myself, Bruce, and if you'd have let me shoot him properly in the fucking head we'd have been out of this miserable city a week ago. If you'd just killed him eight years ago, we would be back home and away from all this. If you'd killed him eight years ago, there wouldn't be a grave to put me next to if he does get around to putting me in the ground next to Rachel Dawes."

That stung. His face must've said as much, but she steeled her face further into a mask of resolve.

"I've lived with the consequences of my decisions since that day. Do you want me to rewind time and redo what I've done? I don't kill. You know the reasons better than anyone why I stick to that principle," he gritted out.

"I do, and I respect that. But this is a rinse and repeat situation. If Harvey Dent went off the deep end after he took out Rachel Dawes, then think of all the fun he could have by making  _you_ choose again. Me or Gotham, Bruce? What's it going to be?"

"Step off, Selina – you're angry, and I understand that-"

"You haven't a single idea of how this feels, Bruce. Waiting up here because you think I'm inadequate to handle myself out there. Waiting for him to knock me off just to get to you – this is just dragging out the inevitable. We need to go down there and  _fight_  for what we're worth," she pleaded. It was miles beyond what she would've done a year ago. A year ago Selina would have up and left or taken the issue into her own hands with or without his consent.

"You're the  _one_ thing more valuable than anything in this world to me, Selina. Look at me."

She wrenched her head around, and tears of frustration were starting to brim in her eyes. Bruce caught her chin and forced her eyes to meet his.

"I love you. Now, and always." At that admission from him, a tear rolled down her cheek.

"I  _can't_  bury you. And I can't let you sink down to his level. You killed Bane because there was no other option. Now we have a chance to let Blake rise up and show that someone other than the Batman has the conviction to uphold what that symbol stood for. You need to  _sit tight_  and let this work out, and stay safe for my sake. Do you hear me?" he said in a shaking voice, his hands hard around her shoulders as he clasped her to him. Selina shuddered.

"I'm not Rachel, Bruce. Stop filling in the gap by thinking I'm the civilian that can't handle herself against that sort of scum. Stop holding me to her standard."

"You're not Rachel, alright? I'm surprised you're even letting the thought of her get under your skin. All the women in my life can't hold a candle to you because you're the one and only that could truly understand every aspect of me and keep a sane mind. Every facet," he muttered against her brow, the skin warm and smooth. "And in the end, the only one I could understand."

"I think of her because she touched you on some level I could never reach. Childhood sweethearts and enchanting, alluring career women – I can't compete with memories," she said.

"Rachel's love for me was purely platonic," he tried to reason with her, but her logic found the loophole.

"And what did you feel for  _her_?"

He halted. That, he couldn't lie about. He had loved Rachel all those eight years. Or at least the memory of her. An illusion Alfred hadn't shattered until much later. Selina picked up on his hesitation and wrenched herself away from him to slam her way into the bathroom. The sound of the shower came hissing on, and Bruce slumped.

Then a little seedling of conviction planted itself in his mind, and he picked himself off the couch and slammed in after her. She was curled up naked in a corner of the shower, hugging her knees to her chest and letting the hot water scour her back a burning red.

Bruce yanked open the glass door and stepped onto the tile, the water soaking through his suit as he picked her up and set her against the wall at eyelevel. Her feet rose a few inches off the floor, and her toes were barely brushing it as he pinned her shoulders.

"You won't say the words because you're too damned frightened of losing me – I don't love a dead woman, I don't love the idea of some old flame.  _You_  brought me out of my own pit, Selina.  _You_ snuck into my life and made me start living," he shouted into her face. Water was dripping down her cheeks, and for a moment he couldn't distinguish tears and the hot droplets.

One day they'd be able to have that seamless communication and unspoken language. For now, it was a clash of miscommunication and frustration.

"I do love you," Selina said. And the mask slipped, her face crumpling as if she'd just admitted a horrible lie. But it wasn't a lie – it was a truth that hurt her too much to admit. He leaned in to swallow her sobs with his mouth, fumbling with the catch of his pants to slip out and twine her long legs around his waist.

Time had a funny way of slipping off the precipice when he was in Selina. Her heat clung and grasped like a sized small glove when he sunk in, and he saw stars when she flexed her body to clench. She seemed to go into a dazed state, her nails scraping over his clothed back and her teeth gritting. Fucking wasn't new to her. But actually feeling during the act was something only he could claim he'd inspired in her.

When they did climax, it was that shaking state of completion that only she could wrench out of him. He tried to never get violent, but Selina brought out the best and worst in him. Gentleness he could manage on most occasions, but tonight he just wanted her to feel how damned frustrated he was at the whole situation. Her head cracked against the tile, and she must've screamed the lining of her throat raw as he thrusted continuously until every drop was drained out of him.

He was shattered by the end, slumping against the glass door with his sodden suit and wingtips ruined. Selina's weight was firm against him, and Bruce wouldn't have it any other way. Eventually they picked themselves up and actually bathed, getting into bed bare and damp to huddle together and watch the city lights.

"I had Rachel's remains exhumed and moved next to Harvey's. I was greedy, since after all was said and done I was the only executor left for her will. She was buried on the Wayne grounds," he admitted after a long hour of contented silence.

"That's where I'd want to lay," she whispered. "Beside you. Now have faith in me to have the capability to avoid that day until we're old and grey. With some grandchildren? Please just trust me."

Their hands twined over the covers, and the metal of their rings clinked like a tiny chime.

"I wonder how my parents made the whole marriage thing look so easy. I think we're doing alright, considering the circumstances."

"How did they meet?" she asked quietly, flipping onto her other side to stare at him across the pillow. The dim city lights caught the dark pools of brown, giving her eyes that fathomless quality he got lost in periodically.

He told her the story of his parents. It was one only he and Alfred were really privy to, and it felt like disclosing the closest secret. Selina curled up in the lee of his body, worn out and dozing as he spun the tale around the two of them like a cocoon.

"So whatever happened to this doctor your parents knew?"

"Dr. Thompkins? She's still around. Running the clinic, keeping the kids off the street and out of trouble."

"You figure you'd bring her around more often. Sounds like my kind of girl."

"Come to think of it – Alfred has been taking the Rolls out towards her old house in Park Row…" he wondered aloud. Selina let out a snort of laughter.

"World's greatest detective – spying on his guardian's date life. Give it a rest, Bruce, and let Alfred  _rekindle_ an old friendship. Don't give him a hard time. If I've learned anything, it's that life is too short."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character Doctor Leslie Thompkins is a canon character from the DC Universe – I do not claim creative rights to that character.


	18. Symbiosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**T** he office had cleared out by the time he was finishing up the last quarterly report. You think having an army of assistants would help out with this stuff, but Bruce preferred to wing it on his own.

Times like these, he wished his father would've passed on a bit of company knowledge and entrepreneurial know-how before his passing. But you had to deal with the cards life dealt you. He stretched out in his chair, his jaw cracking in a yawn.

The elevator pinged, and he didn't look up from the screen as he kept typing out the memo. All the security feeds on the dual screen showed a cleared out office – the elevator view had a feed of his older secretary coming up the lift, though.

He downed the rest of the coffee she'd brewed him before leaving.

_Must've forgotten something._

"Felicia?" he asked after he heard the door to his office crack open, peering over his shoulder.

"Definitely not Felicia, Brucey."

He hit the comm-link in his pocket, hoping that the desk obscured the movement.

"Jack," he said, trying to plaster a congenial smile on his lips. He'd stashed a gun in the desk earlier in the month. But the submachine gun trained on his face wasn't exactly an encouragement to make an unexpected reach for it. A bead of sweat popped out on his brow, and suddenly everything started to move at the pace of a snail.

_Five minutes._

"There's a name I haven't heard in a while. Back in Arkham, it's always  _sir sir sir._ Sir, please take your meds. Sir, please stop shouting. Sir, please don't knife your therapist. You know the drill. Should be in there with me, as batty as you really are in the head."

"Thin line between a serial murder and a vigilante, maybe."

"Ahahahah. Ha. That's why I always liked you, Bats – could really make me laugh with your jokes. If you really look at it from my perspective, you are just one big  _joke_."

"Congratulations on the new wife! Women – can't live without them, am I right?" he said, rifling through a sideboard and knocking off knickknacks and photographs. He made a noise of satisfaction when he finally picked up the framed photo of Selina and him. It was their wedding snapshot Alfred had taken.

"What a catch – just like you! Suh-leen-ah. Rings a bell in my mind," he said conversationally, tossing the frame over his shoulder. The glass splintered and cracked over their smiling faces, and a shard pierced the photo.

"I remember her – y'see. Back in the Narrows, right? She was just some two-bit crook stealing from small timers like Maroni and his people. Back before I got  _really_  sane. Look how far she's come! Real Cinderella story. The  _dark knight_ of Gotham and the reformed criminal! That'd make quite the story if everyone knew the real faces behind the masks, eh Bats?"

Bruce kept quiet through the monologue. His arms felt like lead weights, and he peered in the cup. Some light powder was mixed in with the dregs of it.

_Shit._

"Y'see, Brucey, this whole married deal with the white picket fence ending, scraping around on your stomach with those  _people_  again. It's not you. You're just puttin' on that mask again…nothing like the real thing! Who you  _really_ are, what you really are."

"Now  _she_  wants me dead, no questions asked. She'll put a bullet through my skull and just skate right over your little codes and morality stances. See, she's a survivalist. She'll sell her own skin to keep her head above the water, 'cause she likes living. Not at all like you, my friend – no. You'll die for your cause. Kitty cat doesn't even  _have_ a cause like you and I," he rasped out, advancing and fondling the handle of his knife as he waved it under Bruce's nose. The drug was working slowly through his system.

_Two minutes._

"What this city needs is a reminder of the old days – something exciting. Something  _grand_  enough to get the point across. Now, the asthmatic gorilla that had it by the balls this year had his style, I'll say. But you're missing the point if you just blow it all up. Gotham – it's like this wonderful landscape you never want to erase. It's the breeding ground for every element of chaos. And you and I  _own_ it, Bats."

_Forty seconds._

He got there a bit ahead of schedule. A blur of black and blue crashed through the panel of glass facing out into the main office area. What was left of the Joker's squad of hired guns were in a crumpled heap by the elevator.

"Bird boy's been nipping at my heels for the past month, Bats. I've got to say – you coming back will be a fresh change of pace. Might even retire  _him_ for you," the Joker giggled, the round from his submachine gun ricocheting off the metal of the desk as Bruce flipped it.

Blake was a blur, moving around the shots at an impossible pace before he had the Joker's arm in a twist. The Joker wasn't anything fun in close quarters, though. His head swung forward to butt Blake's, and the newer crime fighter was sent into a dazed sprawl before he took out the legs from under the Joker.

Bruce, all the while, tried to get his feet under him to reach for the handgun in the desk. He shot it off into the wall above the Joker's head. It got the point across, and the Joker glanced up at him with a gleeful look in his eye. Blake followed it up with a crack to the jaw that ended in a satisfying  _crunch_ , reeling the clown back into the glass wall of the window with such force that even it cracked.

Bruce handed the gun off to Blake as he fumbled for his cell, and the younger man already had the Joker in an arm lock before he could blink.

"Call Selina," Blake grated out. Bruce was already dialing her cell, supporting an arm on the wall. Everything was swimming – sound was fractured as he processed it all.

"She's not picking up – Alfred was downtown."

The Joker was laughing, the sound gravelly and pitched. He started shaking from the force of it, and then tears of laughter were streaking his greasepaint. The black lines were runny, staining furrows of the color into the white paint as he kept on.

"Shit," muttered Blake.

Bruce could agree.


	19. Contention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**T** he cell was dank, and her perpetuated sobs got the goon on duty to flag off from the door for a while to loiter elsewhere. Her face straightened, and the crocodile tears dried easily. Selina shook out her hair, a bobby pin falling from the snared mass into her outstretched palms behind her. A little crook to the tip of the pin made it ideal for picking, and the cuffs were pretty basic stuff – swinging bow ratchet type. Nothing special.

Her arms bent down, twisting in the sockets as she flexed the limbs forward and walked herself up onto the bench to sit them infront of her. She'd pay for twisting the muscles in the morning, but for now she fumbled with the lock.

 _Sloppy bunch_.

Predictably, they blew the door on the stairwell of the penthouse instead of bothering with the elevator security locks. The team was taken out, and she was half-way into the office dialing the phone before she heard the dead tone on both her phone and the landline. Someone had cut the line and blocked the outgoing calls on her cellular, so Selina was at the keyboard typing out an emergency call response before the strange woman had come in with the group of hired muscle and leveled a gun at her.

Selina had responded in kind, and the brief firefight that had ensued involved two of their idiots dead. Predictably, they couldn't afford to kill her. Instead they had simply taken out her firing arm with a clean shot and managed to pin her down. The serrated blade she'd snuck out of her stocking was another deterrent, and she'd hacked and slashed someone's throat open before they wrestled it out of her grip.

"Mistah J said no funny business, bozos! Keep her alive!" said the shrill, odd voice of the woman. Her eyes were fever bright and overlarge in her skull, the black greasepaint ringing them runny and old.

She used to be pretty – at least beforehand. Harleen Quinzel, Selina had assumed. All done up in a skin suit and boots halved in black and red that clung to an athletic body, she really only got deranged looking above the neck. White and black greasepaint was smeared just like her male counterpart, and her hair looked unwashed in the lank half-and-half dye job of red and black.

Her cheeks were slashed with fresh scars in another grislier imitation. The lines of stitches were still visible, and the gaping flesh around her mouth that wasn't so well mended was tinged red with infection.

The adrenaline wore off eventually, and Selina took stock of her injuries once they'd packed her neatly away in the car outside the service entrance after hauling her down the stairwell. The ulna was shattered, and luckily no artery was hit with the round. Not explosive tip either. She'd sucked and pried the bullet out of the flesh with her teeth in the cell after she'd gotten her arms infront of her. Only little shards were left from the hit, and those could wait until she could give a damn about proper medical attention.

Sirens were wailing in the distance by the time they were trying to shove her into the back of the car, and she'd put up the best struggle she could to stall for time. It proved for naught, and they'd black bagged her until they tugged the sackcloth off of her head in the cell. The bench they cuffed her to had rusted joints up further, and she'd cowered and screamed and cried until the henchmen got tired of the noise and posted just a sentry outside.

_It pays to be underestimated._

The single lock popped free, and soon the double lock followed. Metal slid off of her wrists, and she flexed both and bound up her wounded arm with a shred of fabric from her slacks.

She wasn't exactly operating with a weapon. They'd checked her thoroughly before locking her up. So Selina kicked off her heels and yanked on the stiletto until it came clean from the shoe with a hiss. The blade hidden in the heel was tiny, barely four inches of serrated steel. But it got the job done.

The door's locking mechanism was just as basic as the cuffs, but the idiot had come back from lounging around the warehouse from all the grunting and wheezing she heard behind the steel portal. It swung outward, so she took and inhale and sent up a Hail Mary before slamming it open.

Selina guessed right. The goon got caught full force of the door in mid-walk and was bowled back before she was at his throat.

"Give me your keys," she spit out, fumbling at his belt until she had his shitty Berretta in hand. He had only an extra clip of ammo, and he'd sputtered and cursed until the thief  _really_ put the thin point of the knife to his thudding jugular.

"Thanks, tiger," she purred, letting him ease his bulk up to skitter into the cell as she pointed him in with the gun. The lock to the door was still functional, but for good measure she cuffed him to a pole instead of the flimsy bench, gagging him with her hose. Selina put the muzzle of the Berretta to the flabby knee through the jeans, firing off a muffled round to keep him occupied.

The door did a decent job of muting sound, and the sounds of his garbled screaming would be good improvised effect for anyone that did care to check the hall. She only needed a few more minutes.

Navigating the maze of hallways, she took out a few hapless idiots just idling around with submachine guns slung on their shoulder straps. The main warehouse was echoing with activity when she stumbled across the way in, and a spray of fire sounded below before Selina was slinking up on the catwalks over the vast vats of chemicals. A redheaded figure was one floor down, already blazing through a pack of hired muscle and sporting a bloodied nose.

Selina cut the wires on the struts to ride the metal walkway down a story, crashing over the group of henchmen with a satisfying  _crunch_ of bones and bodies.

"Need a hand?" she asked Barbara Gordon, stepping lightly off the splattered metal grille as it weighted down on the bodies.

"No need to cut in on my dance or anything," the redhead grinned past the broken nose, and Selina leaned over to wrench it back into shape despite the younger woman cursing her up and down afterwards.

"Thanks," Barbara said thickly, spitting out a spray of blood onto the bodies before pointing towards the center control room.

"Pulled up just as they were hustling you out – found a lead in the Narrows that I forwarded to Blake's cell."

"Found out the big secret, then?"

"We'll talk later. The Joker's rigged something to blow sky-high, but the real master plot is on that hard drive with the analyst up in the control room. He's been running the computer operations and demolition crew, so if we want answers we need to go talk him up."

"You're speaking my language," Selina said over her shoulder, holding the Berretta in her good hand and ducking around the huge vats towards the metal staircase leading towards the glass box hanging over the factory floor.

"Heya, girls!" shouted a shrill voice overhead.

"Shit, down," Barbara shouted as a rocket came whirling overhead to plant into a vat a few yards over. The explosion made Selina's ears buzz without sound for a few seconds, and the heat scorched her hair as she and Barbara huddled behind a retaining wall near the stairwell.

"She's got a fucking bazooka."

"So I see," Selina said dryly, loading a fresh clip into the Beretta before firing off a few warning shots up the stairwell. The crazed woman was still standing there, fumbling with reloading a new round into the long barrel of the weapon.

"Go," Selina spat out, and the two of them bolted up the stairwell. Barbara took the lead, her leg flying out to kick the long weapon through the railing and out of Quinn's grip. The two paired off to grapple, and Selina heard the redhead cock the gun. She tried the door while the other two were occupied, but the knob wouldn't budge.

Selina wasn't looking for a neat entrance, so she backed up a few paces and threw her weight into her shoulder. The wooden door splintered under the force.

No one looked to be occupying the room until the swivel chair turned, the fat body occupying the chair quivering with tension. He had a revolver cocked and ready to blow, sweat trickling under the bridge of his glasses.

The analyst was a mousy man, and his hand shook on the trigger.

"Put it down," Selina said in her best authoritative voice. That proved for naught, as the analyst got even more jumpy. He squeezed down a fraction before the round from her Berretta and Barbara's Glock sprayed into his chest, the explosive tips making a grand mess of his body as it tore apart in chunks.

"So much for negotiating," Selina muttered, flying over to the computer to start tapping out command sequences. She'd worked with demolitions and high-profile security systems, but this was a new level of complex. Barbara had discarded the gun and was trying to use the non-lethal method with the disarmed Harley, grappling with the bigger woman with surprising strength until they'd shoved their way into the control room. They thrashed, they screamed. At one point Harley threw Barbara face first into the command console behind Selina.

"You good?"

"I'm good!" Barbara shouted past  _another_  broken nose, blood spouting out to splatter across the white greasepaint on Harley's face.

"You're both gonna pay! This isn't accordin' to plan like Mistah J wanted!" she shrieked, and Barbara put her fist through to crack the front two teeth loose in a hard punch.

"They've rigged the Prewitt Building to blow," Selina shouted to Barbara, her fingers flying across the keys. Access codes, backdoors through the system – that analyst she and Barbara had taken out earlier would've been useful. She found a thumb drive and downloaded the entirety of the system codes onto that for good measure before shoving it down the front of her blouse.

"Can you disarm it?" shouted Barbara, ducking around another blow.

"No – switch!" Selina snarled, ducking in to shove Barbara back to the terminal while she brought up her good hand in a hard uppercut on Harley's jaw. It was a solid hit, and the crack of teeth banging together was audible in the warehouse as the clown spun on her heel from the force.

Harley threw herself back against Selina, and the two women went sprawling out of the control room onto the walkway. Half of Selina was suspended over the warehouse floor two stories below, and a real sliver of fear knifed her. Crazed, glinting eyes stared over the railing at her, and one of the hands pinning Selina lifted away to procure a switchblade from the neck of her skin suit.

"Like Mistah J's always sayin' – let's put a smile on that-" Harley broke off, sweat making the white of the greasepaint run. Selina had freed her hands of the weak hold and wrapped the lean length of her fingers around the hand holding the blade.

"Pass," Selina spat into the other's face. Her force won out, and the smaller woman's wrist snapped from the grating pressure and angle Selina put on it. The knife wedged back into her throat, and for a minute all the madness slipped out of her eyes.

Selina didn't check for a fatality. She threw the weight of the woman off of her to twitch spastically on the metal grille of the walkway.

"Did it work?" she shouted back into the control room. If that building blew, it'd take out at least a quarter mile of Gotham with it, according to the schematics and payload the analyst had set up. Including Wayne Enterprises.

The Joker was making it personal.

"No," Barbara said, her fingers flying across the keys as she tried her own backdoors in the system. A fray of crossed wires was springing out of the open circuit breaker from her attempt at rerouting it, but that apparently didn't do any good. Selina parsed through the next options, grimacing before she caught sight of a worktable off to the side.

"Shit. Plan B."

"What's Plan B?" shouted Barbara. Selina was already busy rigging the demolition kit from the workbench.

"Thank god for lunatics and their fucking fetish for explosions," Barbara said after Selina had her help slap on the plastic charges onto the terminal. The dark-haired woman said nothing, her fingers flying across the charges as she wired them to the detonator. It wasn't her best work, but she wasn't expecting perfection. The dial read thirty seconds to blow, and Selina keyed off the charge with a little spark.

Time started to whittle down.

"Help me drag Smiley over there – we'll blow the signal if nothing else works," Selina shouted past the noise of the alarm claxons going off from the detonator. Barbara grabbed one shoulder, and Selina took the other as they dragged their way through the maze of the factory. They burst out onto the wharf before the explosion and backdraft blasted them off the pier into the harbor, the dead weight of Harley slipping before Selina got a good grip on her body.

They slung her bodily onto the low deck near the concrete pylons, the water red from the reflection of the fire burning the stretch of warehouses to cinders. The heat was oppressive.

_Chemical fire._

"Remind me not to fall back on your Plan B if necessary," Barbara panted after heaving up a bit of seawater. Selina levered herself out of the trash filled water onto the dock, plucking a bit of kelp and paper wrapper out of her hair before spitting out a stream of dirty water.

"Only to be used in the most extreme situations, mind you. Got your cell?"

Barbara forked it over, and luckily it was only a little watery thanks to the protective casing. Selina's good hand worked the numbers over the screen and waited for Bruce to pick up.

"Yes?" he said tersely on the other end. Relief washed over her.

"I'm alright. We've got Quinzel, but no clue where her boss is. Barbara's here," she shot a brief look at the redhead who busy checking Quinzel's pulse.

"Still breathing – faint pulse. You missed her vitals and arteries. Only got as deep in as the trachea," she wrenched the knife out for emphasis, a bit of blood spilling out with a throaty wheeze from the incision. Barbara clamped her jacket over it and held it there to staunch the flow.

"I honestly don't give a shit if she dies," Selina answered with as much brevity as she could muster. She focused on the problem at hand and said into the phone, "Listen, they've rigged charges all over the Prewitt Building to level a city block. Did Blake figure as much?"

"We just got there. Hold on the line," he said, his speech garbled.

"What is it with these guys and massive explosions? First it's that creepy League, then it's the Joker exercising a morality test with the two ferries, then it's the League  _again_ with thermonuclear detonation, now it's the Joker going another round," Barbara said, hitting herself on the forehead and giving Harley's prone body a much needed punch to the chest. A weak stream of water and blood leaked out of the slashed mouth.

"Selina, the bombs are still running – eight minutes until detonation. He had some sort of failsafe in place from the main terminal. We're working on it, but we  _can't_ evacuate six city blocks in that amount of time," Bruce shouted from the other end. Blake must've cracked the pattern the same time Barbara did and figured out the correlation.

"Damn it," Barbara muttered, scrambling to her feet and bolting for the shadowed stretch of docks under the wharves. "Leave Quinn! The squad will be down here in a minute – I called dad before you started to crack heads in there."

Selina vaulted onto the back of her bike as Barbara peeled out of the shadows, the engine roaring to life as the redhead ramped them onto the walkway above.

"How can we reach Midtown from here in under eight minutes in evening traffic?" Selina shouted above the wind as it whistled by them. She clung to Barbara's waist, the bike skirling through alleyways into the main roads leading uptown.

"Leave that to me," she shot over her shoulder, gunning the throttle to kick them up to an impossible speed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Prewitt Building is the site of the final fight between the Batman and the Joker in Nolan's The Dark Knight – in real life it is known as Trump International Hotel and Tower in Chicago. It is a ninety-two story structure leveling out at a cool 1,389 (423 meters) in both the real world and in the Nolanverse. It ranks as the 14th tallest standing buildings to date.


	20. Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

_**R** _ _ain was falling hard tonight outside of their building. The men had packed away dad's body in a neat black bag and carted him off to the coroner's van. Neighbors were starting to gather in the filthy hallway of the apartment complex, and Selina toed an empty beer can idly in the dirty, bare living room while the social worker was called. Maggie was scared – crying. She clutched at Selina with grubby hands and sniffled, but her sister offered no comfort besides the solid stance and stern face._

" _Maggie," Selina said, tugging her close and tucking a dark curl behind the girl's round ear. She was only six, and still very tender emotionally despite all they had been through. "You don't have to worry about him anymore. He's dead, and so is mom."_

_It was mean to say, and fresh tears spilled over the cheeks of the six year old. Maggie gave a little hiccup._

" _I can't go into a home like you, Maggie. No one will want me. I'm too angry. And I'm not going to go into an orphanage and starve. You'll go to an alright place, though, since you're so young. You're the sweet one. It's really, really hard to explain, so just trust me, alright?"_

" _Will you come see me?" Maggie sniffled, hooking herself around Selina like a mooring line. The older girl tried to not cry, instead steeling her face into that mask she'd learned the day her father started the beatings. She untangled herself and shoved Maggie back, going to wrench the catch of the window open with a grinding sound of wood scraping. A hollow, sad feeling was lumping in her stomach like a cold rock._

" _I'll try," she lied, looking out at the hazy street lights of Gotham shrouded by the rainfall. "But for the best – just forget about me. Worry about yourself – you're the most important person that you need to take care of, alright? And if the foster home treats you bad, Maggie, you run. Okay?"_

" _Okay," she said weakly, snuffling into Selina's sweater as she came up behind her older sister to cling to her._

" _Don't ever let go of hope – that's what mom said. Alright?" Selina turned, leaning over to press her mouth to Maggie's warm forehead, her downy curls tickling her cheeks._

" _Don't ever let go," Maggie echoed, tears rolling down her cheeks. Selina slid out onto the fire escape, skimming down the metal grille and ladders with the lithe grace of a cat. The young girl tried to pretend she was leaving Maggie to a better fate than she could provide on the street, or defending the both of them in the slums of the Gotham orphanages._

_Selina tried to pretend she was leaving Maggie to a better life than she could give her, and not abandoning her sister to die alone so she could worry only about herself._

_She didn't look back._

* * *

By the time they skidded onto the sidewalk and dismounted, pandemonium was reigning in the few blocks surrounding the Prewitt Building. It was six minutes to detonation, and Gotham P.D was in a mad scramble to evacuate the area after Barbara and Bruce phoned in the threat to Jim Gordon.

Selina would have given anything for a few Vicodin. Only a faint tingle in her fingertips remained in her dominant hand, and when she tried to bend her will on the limb below the wounded forearm she'd only get a brief flutter of motion in her wrist. It was a liability she couldn't afford.

Barbara let the bike fall on its side and both women rushed in, the glass atrium oddly peaceful and tinkling with the sound of the large fountain. Bruce was slumped up against the wall, a hazed look in his eye.

"Bruce," Selina shouted, skidding to a stop and shaking him. It only elicited a little blink out of her normally sharp husband, and a fission of fear sparked in her gut.

"Some…high dose of a new drug compound – maybe anti-freeze," he wheezed out, and Selina squinted to look at the blue tinged around his mouth and fingernails. His pupils were contracted into little pinpoints – his pulse fluttering under her fingertips. "Couldn't hold him – brought him with us to figure out the detonator. Blake chased him up the stairwell – top floor."

They didn't need to ask who "him" was.

Barbara nodded, clipping a new round of ammo into her Glock. She motioned them into the freight elevator near the back of the atrium, and they stood in tense silence while it accelerated them up nearly ninety stories to the top floor. The doors slid open on the dark space – silence.

"We'll cover you – help Blake," Selina said to Barbara, propping Bruce up and leveling the gun in his hand. The flat space of the upscale office at the top floor was echoingly empty until Blake came crashing through another section, the flat length of metal piping split in his hand as the Joker dodged and weaved around the blows. Both were bloodied to hell, and Barbara tucked her gun into her jeans and joined the fray.

Bruce was completely out of it. He'd need medical attention and an antidote. She said as much, and he shook his head. "Not lethal," he mumbled, clenching the gun in his hand and sharpening his sight. Selina followed suit – gritting her teeth and letting the younger generation do the real footwork.

They found a good vantage behind a flipped desk, firing off the occasional round into the jumble of bodies. But it was too tangled to fire on for certain, before and after the redhead had bowled in. The risk of hitting Barbara or Blake was too likely, so they held off and prayed for a miracle.

"You've got this, Bruce," she said encouragingly to him. He was stronger than any man. Hopefully the poison wouldn't fuck with his aim. They needed every spare hand.

It went on for minutes, and Selina saw what they were looking for – the lynchpin of the detonator sitting on the office desk of what she assumed was the CEO of whatever corporation rented space up here. It was a cylindrical column cobbled together from scraps of explosives and metal. The black facing on the dials read one minute and fifty-six seconds to termination.

She started the slow crawl to it, leaving Bruce to keep an eye on the group. Maybe she could figure it out – maybe she could find a faulty wire and cut the power to the charges littering the six city blocks. Maybe.

But a crack resounded, and she spun to watch as the Joker wrenched the pipe out of Blake's hand and brought it across Barbara's chest. Whatever padding she was wearing underneath blocked the fatality of the blow – the Joker was freakily strong when he exerted enough force. But the resounding CRACK spoke volumes.

"I've got the one ace up my sleeve!" the Joker chortled, waving his gun around as Barbara peeled herself off the floor. But the redhead fell to her back, wheezing. Blood was blooming against the thin material of her shirt above the Kevlar she wore beneath, and Selina was concerned that she'd broken a rib. Barbara's fingers, once very sure and steady, slipped on the gun she was trying to pull on the Joker for a clean, clear shot. Barbara was down for the count as unconsciousness took her.

Blake was slowly maneuvering himself around the furniture in the posh office space, one eye on the lynchpin of the detonator and the other on the Joker.

But the clown had leaned over and confiscated the Glock, training a gun on Barbara's prone form while the other drifted towards Selina – every instance where Blake came close to her the leather of the Joker's glove would tighten threateningly as he nudged the triggers. He looked at Selina and smiled, seeming to promise the same until she stopped her slow advance towards the lynchpin.

"Introductions, boys and girls! I originally intended for this to be a bit more of a  _private_  audience, but I had the backup plan – gotta plan ahead! Drove down to Boston, started looking up some numbers and names for our little kitty cat. Since Bats is so doped up now he doesn't know his last name, we'll let his wifey do the picking." He reached into his coat, clicking down on a small remote device. Selina felt herself brace for the explosion that might've followed, but none came.

Then they all saw it. The sound of a winch grated, and a beam outside swung itself over the top of the Prewitt Building to dangle a corded length of rope outside of the glassy windows – a body hanging on the end.

"SISTER Magdalena Kyle of the Convent of the Holy Names in Boston, everyone!"

Selina knew it was Maggie the instant she saw her face tilt up towards them. Aged, but still an echo of that six year old she never looked back on. Her slacks fluttered in the wind, and her face was grubby and smeared with blood. She was sporting multiple contusions, the area around her eye swollen in a bruise. He'd roughed her up bad, but the strength in her back and the firm set of her jaw was still there. Dressed down in dark slacks and a dirty blouse, she looked like she'd been wearing them for a few days. No shoes. Just bare, dirty feet suspended ninety some odd stories above the earth. Her hair was a loose, dark halo around her face, and Selina felt real fear grip her heart when the face turned to look at her through the pane of glass.

"I love a lit-tle family reunion," the Joker staggered the words in a drawl, tapping the glass with the muzzle of his gun. Whatever Maggie was screaming was muted by the glass, and Selina couldn't hope to read her sister's lips.

"The catch! Detonator gets switched off by one of you fine citizens – that little do-hickie on the rope above sweet Maggie's hands goes SNICK! Big mess on the street. You get the idea, no need for me to really extrap-olate. I'm more of a  _visual_ learner myself. But if detonator doesn't get switched off, this whole place goes up like a lighter. Our sweet Sister Kyle is the one with the real deactivation switch in the little do-hickie, but so-o sad that it'll snap if she chooses to deactivate the bombs. Of course, I've got the spare switch in hand for that element of fun! Any questions, class?!" The room was silent. You could hear a pin drop as every mind present tried to work out an alternative. How to get to roof in less than fifteen seconds and save the woman.

If Blake could somehow break the glass, cut her loose and catch her in time to glide off without the Joker blowing them all to hell for the effort. But it was hopeless. This was an ultimatum, and he had manipulated them all into choosing the fate of a life.

"Now, the big clincher! Do the heroes sacrifice the life of one to save thousands and their own skins, or does the benevolent woman sacrifice herself to save thousands despite her  _sister's_ shitty track record in a  _sisterly_ role?"

They didn't have to make that decision. Selina watched as Maggie focused on her, and smiled.

"No," she heard herself screaming at the glass pane separating them. "No!"

But the device was already triggered, and the rope's fibers cut cleanly as the metal box fell away.

Selina saw the outstretched length of Maggie's arms and her mouth forming the words as their eyes locked for the briefest moment in time. It was intimate – the most they had seen out of each other in nearly twenty years. It would be the last they ever saw of each other.

 _Never let go_ , Maggie said to her.

And then she was spiraling down, graceful and arched until her body fell out of sight. She went backwards, her expression in a peaceful set with arms outstretched like angels wings.

The Joker was laughing. First little chuckles, then a crescendo into bellyaching laughs that doubled him over. Selina took aim at the crown of his greasy head and fired off every round in her gun until she was clicking an empty ammo round, but she couldn't stop herself from echoing the hollow sound of the chamber firing nothing.

Bruce stumbled over and reached over to wrench the gun out of her hands, clasping her to his chest as she shook violently. Her eyes were dry. She had nothing left to cry over.

True to the Joker's word, the red glare of the numbers on the lynchpin of the detonator had frozen a second away from zero.

Selina's screaming tore out of her body, and all became a blur afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magdalena Kyle is property of DC Comics as a canon character in the Batman mythos.


	21. Fulcrum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**B** y the time all was said and done, the death count after the Joker's spree numbered nearly seventy-two confirmed cases.

The final number being his own life.

Selina had emptied out at least ten rounds into what was left of his cranium by the time the ammo ran out, she was told. Barbara had been out cold on the floor.

John had muttered the details to her after she'd thrashed around and shouted for an answer. She wasn't the best patient when she wanted details. He'd flushed the line leading into her leaden arms with a fresh cocktail of painkillers, and it all got a bit fuzzy after that.

She woke up about ten hours afterwards in the small, spare space staring at the rocky wall near her little cot. An IV drip was sluicing morphine into her arm, and the fog it was putting her mind in was willing her to sleep once more. But she held onto consciousness like a tether. More of the solution pumped cold into her arm. Sweet, sweet relief. Her chest was killing her.

"You're up," Blake smiled at her from the table after she'd summoned up the strength and turned her head to face the other way on the pillow. Outside of the little room's archway was the dark, deep recess of some kind of cave.

_So this is where the bats come to roost._

"Wayne and Selina alright?" she said around what felt like a mouth full of cotton. The taste of grit was stale on her tongue, and her teeth had that fuzzy texture. Her kingdom for a toothbrush. John seemed to anticipate her need and procured the paste and brush after darting to a small door that led off of the room. She swished the water he'd drawn for her after scrubbing the fuzz off her teeth, spitting the foamy mix into the cup and setting the items on the stone floor.

"Shower and toilet in there. You good to go off the drip for a bit?"

"Yeah. I'll cry uncle when it starts hurting again."

"You just got one cracked – lower rib. Should heal up in a few months. About the Waynes – they'll live. Bruce had to go into Gotham General to get his stomach pumped full of charcoal. No lasting effects, but he'll be pretty out of it for a few weeks. Selina was off worse with her arm. And at least some issues in the head. Bruce and Alfred have been taking care of her, though. She'll be alright."

Barbara had a doubt of that. She remembered the helplessness of watching Jim in a madman's grasp, his life dangling by a thread and the flip of a coin. The fear of losing a sibling to fate was familiar to her, and she couldn't imagine the deep shit Selina was putting herself through. A sense of failure bubbled up, and she bowed her head.

"Hey. Don't flake out on me. There was nothing we could've done." Blake was chiding her gently, knocking his weathered, strong fingers to her chin to tilt it up.

"Should've done more work – at least put the word out on the grid more. Figured out he'd gone down to Boston and gotten her. How could we miss that?"

"He always wins – one way or the other. Rather,  _won_."

"Quinn made it out alive?"

"Yeah. Barely. A squad car picked her up and took her to Gotham General. She's in the psych ward there, held in restraints. Tried to kill herself when she heard what Selina did to the Joker. Now she's trying to get out and kill Selina instead, word is."

"Gotta get home. There's going to be a massive power vacuum in the Narrows, now that he's gone. All of those goons he'd hired from Falcone's old group are going to be leaderless. Nothing more dangerous than stupid thugs without direction-" she hissed, the pain of sitting up and putting pressure on the rib cutting her off.

"Remember what I said about taking it easy?" John said irritably, closing the space between them to brace her up with his arms. Barbara flushed five shades of red once she realized how much she was wearing. He'd slid an old Gotham University tee over her bare body, kept the panties – but the bra was snipped off and sitting in tatters on the table with the rest of her blood splattered clothes. A loose binding of gauze was taped to the bloody welt the pipe had brought up on her chest.

"We need to hit the Narrows again and do damage control."

"Nope. You're going to sit this one out. I'm driving you to Gotham General to get the proper rest and meds. Might need physical therapy in a few weeks. Couldn't take you there off the bat since it'd look suspicious after that cluster fuck in the Prewitt Building. That and your dad's just laying in wait to throttle me," he muttered, lifting her in his arms to her moaning and groaning.

By the time he'd helped her hop into a pair of sweats and his oversized windbreaker they'd slid into a nondescript car parked on the lower platforms in the cave and gunned it out of the subterranean haven towards the bridge. A hollowed out tunnel seemed to provide an in and out for the land vehicles.

The feeling when she saw the Gotham skyline whole and undisturbed was close to euphoric. Still, the bite of the lives lost dampened the mood. It felt like a funeral, and the silence that stretched between her and John said that the feeling was mutual.

She was admitted to Gotham General with no questions asked, dolling out her insurance information while John loitered in the sterile hallways. Just as she was about to get wheeled into the unit she flagged off the orderly and motioned John over.

Things were very easy between the two of them, despite the high tension of the situation still riding a high in both their bodies. That race promised had happened many days earlier, and more. But she pushed those thoughts away and leaned into the leather backing of the wheelchair with a soft huff after a twinge in her cracked rib, letting the former cop wheel her along.

"Called your dad. He'll be here in twenty."

"Hope he didn't chew you out too bad," she commented off-handedly. A smile was pursing her lips, and Blake mirrored it when she turned her neck to look.

"I'll stick around for a personal ass kicking, I figure. Protect your virtue or something. Never took Gordon for the overprotective type."

"You have no idea," she laughed, and finally they were on the right hallway. A placard above the red-taped doors read "Psychiatric Ward" in bold letters.

"Oh, boy," John muttered, but he pushed Barbara through after she shot a look over her shoulder. The hospital was littered with the night shift, but as long as they kept out of the restricted areas and stayed in the hallways they were alright. A pane of glass provided a viewing area into the room in question near the nurse's station, and two cops were sipping stale coffee as they stood sentry by the barred door.

"Hey, Blake! Long time, no see – heard you quit the force. And it's Gordon Junior!" shouted a Hispanic officer both of them knew well – Reyes.

"Took up spelunking. Babs here took it hard off one jump, though. Cracked her rib, right babe?"

Barbara plastered a faux smile and tittered nervously like a silly thing. "Bit off more than I could chew. I don't have squirrel blood like John seems to have, you know," she said to the two cops. They all got a good laugh out of it.

"Gordon said you're doing more private investigations these days, Blake. Wanna stake out my wife for free?"

"Nah, man. I don't do the whole distrustful spouse deal."

"Damn! You've got my number if you change your mind. You two wanted to get a look at the clown girl?"

"Yeah. We were upstate in the caves when we heard about the bomb threat. True the Joker's dead?"

"Truth. Had some hair brained plot involving Wayne, his wife, and her sister. Big mess – the morgue is practically overflowing. Sister didn't make it, but the Waynes are alright. Got discharged this morning."

"Huh," both of them chorused, looking through the viewing glass at Harleen Quinzel. John took the brunt of the conversation about the possible conviction sentences for the former doctor, speculating with the cops about her fate. Barbara just kept her eyes fixed on the crunched up form of the blonde.

Someone had scrubbed the dye out of her hair and the corn silk strands hung lank and lifeless on the pillow. Her face was wiped clean and shining, the scars there for everyone to gawk at. Blue, clear eyes stared listlessly at the ceiling while machines pumped chemicals of all sorts into her body. She had some sort of breathing apparatus hooked into the hole Selina had sliced into her throat. Overall she looked like shit warmed over, but alive.

"Never had any solid evidence of her killing anyone. Video feeds show her being the accessory to murder, but not the one pulling the trigger. Her defense team is gearing up one hell of an insanity plea to save her skin," Blake explained after the cops had left to get a refill of fresh coffee from the trolley, flicking through a few video feed recordings stored on his cell. The Joker's escape from Arkham, the shootings, the grainy footage from the Wayne penthouse. "The Judge will probably remand her to Arkham until a board of doctors and psychiatrists say she's cured. But I don't think that'll happen in our lifetime."

It was a silly motion that she shouldn't have taken much notice over. The deranged actions of a madwoman that could be dismissed as insane imaginings. Blake was turning to greet the returning cops while maneuvering her wheelchair around and Barbara took one last look at Harleen Quinzel.

The restraints gave the blonde a little freedom with her arms, and a half-smile was twitching her scared mouth into a grotesque twist. She seemed to stare at nothing, mouthing some nonsensical words with her hand cradled over her belly.

_Protectively._

Evil had a habit of rooting itself in dark places to bide its time. Somewhere to dwell until it was able to flourish.


	22. Continuity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**"** Funeral was a downer," she muttered into the froth of her beer. Barbara took a fortifying swig, the bulk of bandages around her chest bulging out the tight black dress she'd worn. Her bolero was slung across the back of the chair, and some pleasant Frank Sinatra strains were crooning through the warm eatery.

Both of them had patched themselves up and attended Magdalena Kyle's funeral at the Wayne family plot on the manor grounds. About half of Gotham had gone to it, and they didn't even know the woman. Society vultures, Barbara had called them. They put on their dark designer labels and slathered fake sympathy over every surface under the pretense of genuine concern. Selina had looked gaunt – held it together, though. Not a tear as they lowered the casket.

The viewing had been a closed affair. Bodies weren't exactly pretty to mourn over after they'd impacted on the concrete after a thousand foot fall. The convent had flocked up from Boston with a few parish priests and cardinals. Probably never met Maggie Kyle, but they were attracted by the high-profile pocketbooks of the Waynes and made their reassurances that the good sister was with the angels.

At least the nuns and their weeping were genuine.

All in all, the thing left them with a bad taste in their mouths that needed a stout beer to wash it down. Barbara and he had bolted off after the service while Selina and Bruce grinded through the hordes of mourners. Now they were snug and tight in a cozy booth in Pasquale's Bistro. They split a couple tall glasses of Guinness and Italian cuisine, a sense of normality finally bleeding back into the fabric of their lives. She'd be starting her last year in a few weeks. Business major, and mad for accounting and computer science.

They quizzed one another on their lives for the better part of two hours. In their short association, it'd been more action in the Narrows on long nights. Not actual conversation. It was a break from routine, and very refreshing. Finally the place started clearing out and the two took notice of their waitress getting antsy for them to clear out.

"You've got curfew?" he teased her after she'd looked up the time on her cell.

"Yup. Better get me home before dark, Blake, or you'll have Jim Gordon breathing down your neck."

"I wasn't too crazy about his 'talk' he gave me the other evening," he grouched into the dregs of his beer, smiling after she'd gently kicked his shin under the table with her pointy heel. She put up a fight about the tab, eventually settling on him paying for the dinner and her covering the tip. Drove her back uptown, killed the engine, and helped her out of the car with a very gentlemanly air that made her slap his shoulder.

"Roll out the red carpet, why don't you? What's the occasion?"

"I don't know. One of the biggest criminals to terrorize Gotham is worm food, city's intact, and Bruce isn't completely off his rocker – had a nice night and drinks with an alright gal…" he trailed off, grinning down at the slight woman. Her mouth pulled back in a smile.

"Sure. Classifying this as a date. We can do better when I'm not such a cripple-"

John didn't care to hear the rest out of Barbara. Her mouth was too distractingly pretty, and he covered it with his own after gently backing her into the wall of the brownstone. She tasted like the harsh bite of the good stout they'd drank earlier, and those strong mints she was fond of popping in her mouth like candy.

God, she was gorgeous. All the fire in her eyes and hair mirrored in her taste, and even more of the heat sparked between them as he breathed her in and probed her soft lips with his tongue. A tiny, breathy sound was sighed into his mouth, and she kissed him back with all the feverish urgency he was throwing at her.

"Wow," she muttered into the muggy heat, and he smiled against her brow before ducking back in for seconds. She was fire, and he wanted the scorch on his tongue before he had to drag his sorry ass back into the shrouded identity.

He found himself back in the cave by nightfall. Barbara was on lockdown during night at Gordon's walkup, which was quickly turning into a miniature Guantanamo in terms of security. Jim Gordon might've given his blessing for Barbara associating with John, but he sure as hell didn't want her running around in the Narrows with a gun.

The redheaded firebrand had said she'd sway him eventually. When her ribs weren't splintered like a rotten piece of plywood. For now, Blake was flying solo again. Bruce promised to resume the training in a week. But the Narrows were broiling over with tension from the recent power vacuum, as Barbara had predicted.

Heat was creeping into the tight synthetic material of the suit, but the fabric did a good job of cycling it out and cooling. Lucius Fox was pretty on par with the most brilliant inventors, and this side-job he'd performed in fashioning a protective sort of shell that had a range of movement was no exception. Maybe not as overblown as the Bat or as innovative as the tumbler. But it had its qualities.

Cycle wouldn't do for the scale of tonight's cleanup. The new Bat that Fox had shipped over was too obvious, and he still needed a bit of training to fly the thing. He got a look at the tumbler sitting neglected on the corner platform near the exit tunnel. Bruce and he had moved it from the bunker by the wharves a week or two ago.

That'd do. Rising to the occasion, as Barbara would say.

He'd risen this far already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pasquale's Bistro is indeed a restaurant in Nolan's Gotham. The eatery has possible mob connections to Maroni's ring, and during The Dark Knight a website was created and subsequently "Jokerized" by Ledger's Joker. The site is still up with the menu (containing an appetizer named after Salvatore Maroni, no less) and everything in all its altered, creepy glory. Take a peek!
> 
> Pasqualesbistro . com


	23. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Nolan, D.C Comics, and Warner Brothers.

**I** t was August. A very warm August. They'd sold the penthouse in downtown after both he and Selina got sick of the grit and noise of the city. A project he'd started in the Palisades on a piece of property near the riverfront was unveiled for Selina's birthday.

Property left over from his mother's entitlement on the Kane side was still under her name and in his possession, so he threw a chunk of change at a contractor and let him do the footwork of restoring the rickety old mansion standing on its last legs. What resulted was a sprawling brick home in the Georgian style as originally constructed.

Alfred had decided on living in sin with Doctor Thompkins in the city, so they decided on an informal cleaning staff that came once a week. They cooked their three square meals a day, otherwise, but Alfred was unpredictable in terms of popping in and out to tend to the little things or cook them breakfast on those odd days. Leslie came along, still a handsome old gal with steel grey hair and kind eyes. Fit as a fiddle. Alfred had shot him a dirty look and imparted some stiff comments about minding his own bloody business when Bruce said Leslie looked spry for her age.

Bruce had given him the Rolls as a retirement gift. The feisty old gentleman hadn't complained about that most welcome gift. Bruce wasn't sure what Alfred loved more – the automobile or the flexible Doctor Thompkins.

The Mercedes he'd shipped in from Italy now served as their informal formal car, parked on the crushed shell drive with the Lambo and Saleen in the carriage-house cum garage. Those sleek beasts were for reserved for special nights.

Moving wasn't much of a pain – personal possessions were in lesser quantity in the penthouse than they'd been in the villa at Lake Como. Selina's frozen face was slipping in light of the change of scenery, and gradually the thaw set in. She'd done what nature had bred her to do in these emotional situations after Maggie's death. She simply shut down and acted indifferent, throwing herself into the contract work with Doctor Waller and the Department of Defense.

Rarely got out. Just sat at the computer with files and video feeds – cycling through the day with sleeping, eating, and work. He lost her there for a few weeks until he'd driven her over the bridge out of the city into the cool, green forests of the upscale Palisades. Wayne Manor sat across the highway from the stretch of property the Kane Manor was situated on, and he let Selina take a turn or six around the grounds while checking in on the progress of the reconstruction.

A wistful part of him looked at the smaller room adjacent to the master bedroom and noted the wide bay windows that had a view of the garden. Crib would go there, rocker by the window, books crammed on the shelves, toys littering the well-loved rug with a fresh mellow color of paint on the walls – it'd be ideal. He was a full decade older than Selina, and he wasn't getting any younger. But in order to take that step, he needed her on board and out of that haze of malaise she was mired in.

He'd driven back to his old home and crossed the grounds, kids milling about with their new text books out on the grass for the fall term. Studying. Selina was still ambling around, inhaling the fresh air with a healthy flush coming back to her pale cheeks. The cast would come off soon, and the gaggle of girls that had attached themselves to her would brace on either side and fill her abnormal silence with aimless chatter. It put a smile on her face and distracted her.

It was tough watching her slip into that state.

He'd been there from the day Joe Chill had gunned down his parents to the day he'd decided to give up the cowl. She'd changed him, though. Now it was his turn to help her work through her own demons.

Marriage in its entirety was just a task of slogging through the shit and getting older together. But when your morals and ideologies clashed, middle ground had to be found to keep the union whole and strong. Differences made you stronger as a pair.

But it'd been conflicting when Selina had blown out Jack Napier's brains onto the carpeted floors of the Prewitt Building. A reasonable part of his mind said it was justified after what he'd pulled with Maggie. Another part of him said it was an irrational, baser reaction that Selina would've done in cold blood. Bruce had shoved them all back and packed the incident away in his mind. It wasn't worth tearing the both of them up – the Joker was trash. He'd died as a consequence of his actions, albeit outside the realm of legality.

A greedy part of Bruce thought it was too good a fate for him. Better to let him rot in Arkham with his insanity until he was crippled with age or some sickness took him.

A nasty part of Bruce whispered that none of this would've happened if he would've taken the opportunity he'd had in his hands nearly nine years ago – kill him, save hundreds.

He'd mumbled that exact thought to Selina the night after she'd killed him. They were in the hospital, and he was still reeling from the poison. His secretary had been bought off and subsequently killed for her trust. Apparently her daughter was deep in with one of the Joker's thugs, and her life had been at stake unless Felicia had provided the access keys and appropriate acting in view of the security cameras to get the Joker into the Wayne Enterprises building.

It was a mess that'd taken weeks to clean up. Would take years for a certain few. Selina would probably never get over it.

Selina had stared at him for a long time before gently closing her hand over his own, squeezing reassuringly with her good hand. "Stop. Don't think about the probabilities. We'll deal with it all in the morning."

And that was the last she spoke of it.

Bruce knew that one day she'd stop bottling up that emotion and it would come spilling out in one great torrent like it had in Milan. That night seemed like it'd happened a hundred years ago, not mere months. The time with Selina stretched the hours into years – Bruce wanted nothing more. He could gladly spend a few millennia with her and her alone and still want more, as sappy as that sounded in his mind.

But for now, he let Selina deal with it in her own way like he'd dealt with his grief. All he could offer was the less intrusive presence when she needed her solitude and be the shoulder for her when she chose to open up. On her terms.

All because he understood her better than anyone else.

But that was the beauty of human nature – healing happened when you handled the situation and the person properly. And that was what they were working towards as a pair. Had been working towards since he'd given up the cowl and she'd stopped just surviving. Both of them had started actually  _living_.

The week after they'd moved into the new manor house, Selina picked up her morning cardio routine that she'd abandoned after all the rush and bustle of the Joker's reemergence. That was the key signal that made him realize she was trying to push herself out of the pit on her own steam.

Her earbuds were blasting some favorite band into her brain, and she was decked out in the tight athletic wear he'd missed so much on her lithe body. She established a sort of track around the garden and Bruce watched as she counted out the miles when she came into view on the laps – her mouth had this habit of voicing her internal counting when she thought no one was around.

She did it when she was safecracking. Or had done it. He must've watched those video feeds of her crouched in front of every security barrier known to man for hours last year, back when she was just a thief that'd stolen the last tangible item tied to his mother.

Bruce was nursing his morning cup of coffee in the office, watching her vault over the balustrades of the terraced gardens and scale the walls like some sleek panther. Learning to work with the recently limited range of her dominant hand. She'd get frustrated when she couldn't pull off a proper vault or back handspring. But Selina had a habit of repeating the motion until she got it right.

He'd surveyed the house one more time. The furniture was mostly reacquired in the resale of the Wayne Manor auctions. It felt like he'd moved a piece of home back into his life, only in a house that didn't remind him of a mausoleum.

Selina had surprised him with an early birthday gift for him a few nights before. Her own acquisition she'd tracked down through some old thieving contacts after the house had been emptied of its contents to be auctioned.

The old, burnt photo of Martha and Thomas Wayne carefully preserved in the frame on their bedside table. Just showed up with a little ribbon tied to them one day. He'd spent hours rubbing his thumb over the feel of the glass protecting their smiling faces, but the tangible feel of his mother's flesh and the lost scent of his father's smoking tobacco was a mere echo in the bone.

Most nights before bed Selina rested her wedding rings and pearls like little offerings before the picture, and Bruce felt that odd twinge at his heart at the quiet sight of his wife so focused on his parents and their likenesses in the fractured, torn photo.

Selina went to bed early as usual that night. He'd crawled in after her hours later with a fortifying nightcap of scotch burning in his gut and a cautionary check of the security system for the grounds and manor. All clear, so he could sleep easy. The sheets were warm from her body's heat, and she gave an exhale once Bruce reached for her.

What transitioned from a sleepy pull to tuck her into the curve of his body morphed into something more carnal.

 _That_  was her healing process. Translating it into raw, tangible, basic need. He breathed something stupidly pre-coital into her ear and earned a humming purr. Bruce tried to shift up against her and was left limp-boned and pinned for the effort, wet heat tonguing his pulse point then the shell of his ear. Selina was all for equal rights in these respects, but sometimes she could get like this. She liked to dish it out as much as he could take, and vice versa. A distant part of his brain was congratulating himself on having the luck to have such a wild wife before all lucid thought burnt up in his brain, her wet heat slick and gripping as she impaled herself with a thin, reedy sound rasping out of her throat.

Bruce could only take his wife in hand and let her grip the headboard with white-knuckled fists, slowly undulating in a rhythm that drove him to distraction. Moonlight lit up the strands of her hair flying out, a few clinging to her brow and wet with sweat. Lips got fuller and redder when she was like this, whether kiss swollen or thick from trailing them further south of his waistline to wrap around him for a solid suck.

The thought put him in a frenzy, and the pair of them dissolved into a tangled mass of writhing limbs as she fought for dominance and he tried his damn best to flip her, pin her, and fuck her into complacency. It was always a little game of theirs. Who could drive who off the edge first?

He felt her climax in a screeching, nail raking mess that took the coat of varnish off of his old bedstead they'd put in their room and a fair amount of skin off his back. Finally he unclenched his jaw and let go of the frayed nerves, spilling into her with such force that it wrenched a moan out of his throat and bunched his legs, fingers groping in the dark to snag on the turn of Selina's rounded hips and slam into her with the last strains of willpower left in his tired body.

His heart must've been hammering quite dramatically since Selina gave the first little chuckle he'd heard out of her in weeks after she'd mastered her vocal cords once more and pressed her face into his chest. That metaphorical load on his heart lightened considerably, and Bruce felt like he could breathe again.

Sleep came easier that night with Selina slouched across his chest, her body firm and naked while breathing easy in the dark of  _their_  bedroom, in their bed. Bruce slipped off for a few hours with her, but his internal clock nudged him awake as soon as dawn was creeping across the dewy gardens.

She unfurled herself from a tight ball of sleep off his chest to stretch cat-like beside him in a slow, twining motion. The light was hitting her dark eyes from the drawn curtains, and Bruce had to pinch himself to believe he was actually in his own home, with his wife, and this all wasn't some dream.

"Oh," she muttered, and Bruce blanched at the sight of green tinting the skin around her mouth before she was scrambling from the rumpled sheets to bolt into the bathroom. The telltale sounds of retching followed. She did feel a bit feverish last night, but he blamed that on the sex. Not a stomach virus.

"Coming down with a bug?" he'd asked after stepping into some sweats to pad into the cool bathroom. Bruce fixed her up an aspirin from the cabinet, and she knocked it back with a glass of water before resting her sweaty brow against the rim of the toilet bowl. Not anything serious, but she did look a bit shaken up.

"Think so," she mumbled, her naked body crumpled near the toilet and its cool surface she didn't seem to want to abandon. So Bruce eased himself down despite the screaming in his back and knees, bracing her against his back to ward off the chills she was catching after her temperature leveled out. The bathroom was cold and every surface was a glossy, warm marble. He made an internal note in his head to see about getting the floors heated – she hated cold floors.

"Maybe call in and get an appointment – get some meds. I could kill for something to cut down on this fever."

"More aspirin and bedrest. You're not opening the laptop today, either. Waller can wait. Exhausting yourself isn't going to get you well again," he argued. He knew it was serious when Selina didn't offer up a word of protest or witty repartee in reply. The former thief simply slid further forward to hug the porcelain bowl and mumble her misery into the smooth surface.

He tugged back her hair with a tie from the vanity. Long arms gave him a good reach, and he only had to shift her around to reach it. Bruce settled in for the long haul of nursing her through the nausea and threw her robe over her thin shoulders, resuming his spot of leaning her back against his chest when she wasn't heaving into the toilet.

It wasn't in his nature to not know everything going on in his life – he was a slight control freak in that matter. Every detail was to be analyzed and turned over in his head, every lead deviating from the detail followed.

But he'd been subconsciously ignoring her thickening waist. Blamed it on a richer diet or the amount of excessive sleep she was getting these days. The brand she was taking for the pill prevented periods on a three month span – no trouble in her missing a cycle, and no alarm raised when it didn't come.

Bruce clasped a hand over the rounded turn of his wife's belly and settled his own head against the cool porcelain of the commode while she was doubled over and groaning into the tile. The realization hit him like a punch in the gut. Fear and exhalation were fighting over his sanity, but he kept a cool head for both of them while Selina hiccupped and lost the rest of her dinner to the toilet bowl with a groan after practically knocking his nose in with her head reeling up. She was a trooper, his thief. But she seemed to clue in on the thing they'd both been ignoring for the last month after she hunched back into him and froze up with tension.

"No one said birth control was one hundred percent effective," she muttered, her brow sweaty as she pressed her head back into his shoulder.

It was going to be one hell of an autumn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The house described is modeled after the Georgian style Westbury House in Long Island, New York. An older home, it's significantly smaller than the Wayne Mansion in scale, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in charming class and some expansive gardens.
> 
> Chosen for the locale in relation to the fictional Gotham region – New England. And the probable architecture the Kanes would've chosen to rival the Waynes and their Elizabethan mansion across the way portrayed in the Nolan films. Take a look at the house and grounds below by following the link – you won't regret it.
> 
> tinyurl dot com slash WayneHouse
> 
> Yours Hopefully here – THANK GOD THE ACTION WOUND DOWN. I'll be going back to edit those chapters at leisure now that the college term is almost upon me. Thank you all for your understanding in that matter, as I am still just a wee budding typist of stories – for now enjoy the fluffy cream. It is delicious and less of a pain in the ass for me to write.
> 
> Fun fact for those that didn't read the comics – Gotham was originally called Gotham Town during its heyday as a port in the 19th century. Before that, the Dutch who inhabited the island that became the city dubbed it New Rotterdam to mirror its sister city New Amsterdam – now known in our world and the DC Universe today as New York.


End file.
